


The (Mickey) Mouse Trap

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Attempted Historical Accuracy, Disneyland, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Research Is My Kink Too, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: Waverly reunites the team under false pretenses... and sends them to the Happiest Place on Earth. It's all fun and games until Illya does the one thing he can't take back and they must all face the consequences.Angst and Romance and Fluff set against the backdrop of Disneyland in 1963: the year the Tiki Room first opened and The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement made its international debut.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedeepmystery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/gifts).



> Happy New Year, Somedeepymystery! <3
> 
> Let our NaNo/New Year celebration commence... first fic of 2018! Congratulations on crushing your NaNoWriMo word count and THANK YOU for inspiring me to tackle my own 30-day challenge. "Show Me Eternity" wouldn't exist if it weren't for you! You are a true gem and such a wonderful, kind, and supportive part of our fandom family. You were among the first to welcome me and I am so grateful that you are in my life. Thank you for all that you do as both a reader and a writer. :)
> 
> [When I mentioned that my characters had gone rogue... this is what I meant! My short & sweet Gen fluff piece that I had envisioned is now a multi-chapter, Gallya story full of angst and pining. C'mon, guys, this is a *Disneyland* fic! Somewhere in the distance, my Muse is laughing at my naivety.]
> 
> ***
> 
> For my fellow [rebelliousrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousrose) fans, you might notice a familiar-looking tag on this fic! She has *officially* declared me worthy to use it and I promise to make good on it. I've done my best to make sure everything is historically accurate and will be including my research notes at the end for anyone interested!
> 
> ***  
> If you haven't seen it yet, there's a [campaign](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/169082303463/feedback-culture-is-dead-long-live-feedback) going around to make some changes to AO3 regarding the feedback culture. This is something Somedeepmystery and I are extremely passionate about. Thank you for supporting your writers and helping spread the love! <3
> 
> Happy New Year, my friends, and long may our fandom continue! Wishing you and yours all the best that 2018 has to offer. :)
> 
> Please enjoy! Comments always appreciated. :)

Napoleon Solo waltzes through the crowds, light on his feet and light with his fingers— _strictly_ to keep his skills sharp, of course. He relocates watches and jewelry (even a scarf or two) to their owners’ coat pockets and purses, slips a few, crisp bills to those in need of cheer.

No harm done.

Just little mischiefs to dull that quiet, unnamed aching in his chest.

It is a fine December evening. The holiday season at LAX is nearing the end of its run: a grand symphony of comings and goings. Solo maneuvers through the terminal with an easy grace, the choruses of hails and farewells echoing in his ears.

Vigilance masquerades as charm as his blue eyes sweep instinctively over the sea of harried and smiling faces. He winks at a passing stewardess and lazily tracks her blushing retreat, up until she reaches the browning, but still-glittering Christmas tree.

Solo notes how her steps falter, the way she ducks her head and gives an extra wide berth to the looming figure before her. He glances at the broad shoulders, the towering height, the back of a blond head… and stops short.

A briefcase knocks into his back—a product of momentum, not malice—but the American doesn’t budge. A parade of disgruntled travelers mutter under their breath as they divert their course around him. Solo cocks his head, staring openly at this man, this _apparition_ who, by all accounts, should still be in Moscow.

Certainly, he shouldn’t be _here_ in Los Angeles of all places.

Tugging needlessly at his suit jacket, Solo picks his way over to the KGB’s top agent. His friend. His former partner. Potentially, his next mission.

The American is a case study in indifference as he saunters up to the Russian. “Get stood up, Peril?” he quips, before a tautness creeps into his voice, “Or are you waiting for me?”

Illya Kuryakin regards him closely, all steel-edged trepidation and narrowing eyes. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this ‘chance’ encounter either.

“You tell me.”

An exaggerated sigh follows. Solo tilts his head back, challenging. “ _That_ ,” he says, “depends on whose flag you’re flying.”

“I was sent by Waverly.”

A sense of relief begins to settle over him, but he won’t let it get too comfortable just yet. Especially when he hears the Russian’s next pronouncement.

“He didn’t say anything about you.”

Their eyes meet, assessing, sizing each other up in a way they haven’t since Berlin. Since Rome. _Seven weeks apart will do that to you,_ he thinks.

Solo hums, considering. He picks an imaginary piece of lint from his jacket. “I received my marching orders. All phrased, of course, as a,” he pauses, smirking in the way that only he could accomplish, “well, as a _solo_ mission.”

A scoff and a familiar roll of blue eyes. The corners of that Soviet scowl threaten to quirk into a smile. A small one, but genuine nonetheless.

The spell lifts.

Solo claps him heartily on the shoulder, his smirk softening with sincerity. “It’s good to you see, Peril.” _Good to be on the same side,_ is what he really means. He can’t say if they are on the same team.

There is a gruff, grudging warmth in the man’s accented baritone.

“You too, Cowboy.”

Solo adjusts his grip on his suitcase, gestures out at the thinning crowds and exit signs. “Headed to Anaheim?”

Peril’s brow furrows and Solo feels his stomach drop along with it. But all the man says is, “I was told to wait.”

“For…?”

“Instructions.” Peril glances at his father’s watch, gives a small _tsk_ of annoyance. “They should have arrived by now.”

The American catches a sudden glimpse of dark hair and flashing eyes. Something like joy radiates through him as he sees the young woman approach. Solo turns back to his partner, barely covering his grin.

“Well, punctuality has never been Gaby’s strong suit.”

He’s said the magic word.

Peril snaps to attention, eyes wide as he scans the terminal. He zeroes in on her instantly, a sharpening of focus, a softening of edges. By the time Gaby walks up to them, Solo is half-expecting him to salute.

The American gives her a split second to prepare herself before lifting her off her feet. It is shameless and sentimental and _precisely_ what the occasion calls for.

He sets her back down with a friendly peck on the cheek and gives her his best smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Miss Teller?”

“Missed you too, Solo,” she murmurs, her slim hands smoothing down his sleeves. “You look well.”

He’s got a thousand one-liners on the tip of his tongue—each sultrier than the last—but he doesn’t get the chance to use any of them. A distinct cough and the sudden shadow behind him sees to that.

Solo and Gaby don’t spring apart so much as gently disentangle. The young woman takes in the Russian with a cautious, little smile.

“Hello, Illya.”

“Gaby,” is all the man says, but perhaps it is all he needs. Her name falls from his lips like a prayer, hushed reverence colored and warmed by nuance. Solo can hardly believe his ears.

Who knew the man to be capable of such dulcet tones?

Peril reaches for the mechanic with stilted, self-conscious movements… and ends up in the no man’s land between a bow and an embrace, between comedy and tragedy.

Gaby clears her throat and retreats back to a more professional distance. Her posture is too rigid, her eyes too bright to fool the American—she is much more affected by Peril’s touch than she would like to let on.

Solo observes this newfound heat, this newfound _ice_ between his partners with growing interest. He can’t tell if this is one step forward or two steps back for them. Three weeks had passed since the man returned to Russia, hard on the heels of a month-long mission spent without him: just the pair of them, posing as newlyweds in a French _fairytale_ of a town.

The perfect cover. The perfect location. The perfect opportunity.

Squandered.

Solo had been exasperated to learn that Gaby’s reticence was not attributable to coyness. He had pressed and prodded and pleaded for details, but was forced to accept that there truly _had_ been nothing to report.

He wonders, sometimes, if they do this just to spite him.

“I wasn’t expecting either of you,” the mechanic says, cutting through his musings with an eloquent shrug. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

She turns to Solo. “Are _you_ responsible for our transport?”

“There’s a helicopter right this way,” he informs her. Off her worried look, he adds, “Don’t worry, I’m not your pilot this time.”

 _“This_ time? You have flown before?”

They look over at Peril, an odd disconnect between them all. Solo braves a smile at him, feeling almost _guilty_ about this experience he hadn’t shared in.

“Two weeks ago. In Turkey. Got a crash course in flying.”

“Emphasis on _crash,”_ the mechanic says with a grin. Before the Russian can attack or interrogate him for putting Gaby’s life in danger (probably a bit of both), Solo is quick to smooth things over.

“I stuck the landing, more or less, thank you. Saved your pretty neck too, I might add.”

Peril’s expression darkens—sadness, regret maybe. His voice is brusque as he reaches to take Gaby’s luggage from her.

“We should leave.”

The mechanic steps away from him, fingers tightening protectively over the handle. “I can manage,” she tells him. Curt, but not cold. Guarded.

Gaby pivots on her heel and hurries over to Solo. They walk side-by-side in silence, a forlorn-looking KGB agent trailing close behind.

 

* * *

 

It is more by design than circumstance that they are the only passengers on the helicopter. The pilot greets them by name and the trio breathe a collective sigh of relief.

They are supposed to be here.

The minutes tick by in agonizing silence until Solo has had enough. His gaze flicks between his partners. They sit stiffly beside each other: unfathomable brown eyes stare straight through him, roiling, blue ones quickly look away.

He lounges across from them, maddeningly casual. Solo graces them both with a smirk. Anything to get under their skins. Maybe give them a common enemy while he’s at it.

“So,” he drawls, “there’s gotta be an explanation for all this. Why don’t we compare notes?”

And then, because he’s feeling just _so_ magnanimous, he declares, “I’ll go first.” He waits for any sign of acknowledgement. There isn’t one. _“Well,_ after Miss Teller and I parted ways in Ankara, I was sent to Canada—Newfoundland, to be precise—to provide an extraction.”

Peril scoffs. “For operatives or art?”

“Bit of both,” is his cool response. “I got our men out and chose to stay behind. Kept an eye on the local auctions. Forgeries, smuggling, that sort of thing.”

He shrugs, a lofty innocence to his tone. “I’ve been enjoying my time there ever since.”

“You got your White Christmas after all,” Gaby murmurs. Solo nods, surprised, and, somehow, _moved_ that she’d remembered his wish. He’d nearly forgotten that conversation.

“And _you_ got to go somewhere warm. Perth, wasn’t it?”

The mechanic hums in confirmation and Solo can practically _feel_ the Russian’s eyes darting back and forth between them. Again, there is that reminder, that sharp, bitter pang of exclusion.

Peril’s not used to being the odd man out.

“Now, I would have been _happy_ to ring in the New Year there as well,” Solo continues, to get them back on track, “but it seems our dear, old Uncle Alex had other plans. A surprise family reunion.”

He squares his shoulders to the man before him, tone grave, but voice light. “And, speaking of families, how _is_ Mother Russia? Did she rejoice when her prodigal son returned?”

Peril glowers at him, arms folding over his chest. “It was not warm welcome,” he says through gritted teeth, “but I am here now.”

His partners wait for an explanation: Solo with a carefully blank expression, Gaby seeming to hold her breath. The Russian huffs, evidently put upon by their silence.

“Waverly worked out new contract with KGB, ordered me to take first available flight to Los Angeles. I came straight from Moscow.”

Solo does not miss the way Gaby’s eyes widen at the news, how her lips part in silent surprise. The quiet, shaky exhale that follows. For all the Russian’s words, there is still a wariness, a distrustfulness to her expression. A cautious, armor-plated optimism.

The chopper begins its dizzying descent as Solo turns to her. The final piece of the puzzle. “What about  you, Gaby?”

Her eyes snap to his, jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. “As you know, I’ve been in Australia. No mission. Change of scenery. That’s all.”

Peril jolts, though not entirely from the landing. He frowns. “You were there on… vacation?”

“Bed rest,” she corrects. She shimmies out of her seatbelt, a scowling, Soviet storm cloud shadowing her down the steps.

Solo closes his eyes, suffers for a moment, before joining them on the tarmac. Not surprisingly, his partners are almost at each other’s throats.

“Show me,” demands the Russian.

Gaby tosses her hair, indignant, a hard set to her mouth. The glare she gives him, Solo knows, could kill a lesser man.

“No.”

Peril closes what little distance is left between them, truly towering over her now. The American wonders, briefly, if _this_ is the moment they will kiss. It would hardly surprise him if it were. Peril’s voice is deeper than Solo’s ever heard it, unflinching in its authority.

_“Show. Me.”_

Unfortunately for the Russian, Gaby may be the only person who can defy him. And, unfortunately for the Russian, she _doesn’t._

“Fine,” Gaby snaps and Solo freezes. Peril may not know where her injury is, but _he_ certainly does. Solo steps forward, ready to smooth things over.

“That won’t be necessary, Gaby.”

But she is already shrugging out of her coat, tossing it onto her suitcase. The mechanic sweeps her hair aside, fumbles for the tiny zipper at her neck, never _once_ breaking eye contact with the Russian.

Solo is aware of a tram approaching in the distance. A second look confirms that, yes, Waverly is the lone passenger upon it. His partners, however, are oblivious to anything but this challenge, this _dare_ between them.

The cream fabric of Gaby’s dress begins to gape open in the back: an expanse of tanned skin bared to Solo’s eyes only. Heat crawls up the Russian’s neck, his eyes flaring wildly. He swallows, an unusual huskiness to his voice.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you _think_ I’m doing?”

The zipper reaches its natural conclusion, the straps of Gaby’s dress threatening to slip off her shoulders. The heliport attendants are gawking, the tram is pulling up, and Peril is too flabbergasted to do something about it.

In one, expert movement, Solo has her bundled back into her coat. His hand slips under the satin lining to pull the zipper at least part of the way up.

“Thank me later,” he mutters.

His partners jump, scarlet-faced as Waverly steps off the tram and greets them. “Good evening, chaps. Good to see you three together again.” He smiles, tactfully ignoring whatever he might have witnessed. “Take a seat. I’ll explain on the way.”

Peril needs a swift elbow to the ribs to get him in motion. He bends mechanically to retrieve his luggage and sleepwalks to the tram. He slides in beside Solo, actively avoiding Gaby’s death stare in the next row.

 

* * *

 

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here, he begins. A wry smile crosses his face as the tram glides off. “Do keep your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside at all times.”

Waverly peers from one, uneasy face to another. He sighs. “I hope you’ll forgive me the secrecy, but this really was the only way. I doubt _any_ of you would have come here otherwise.”

He waits.

Kuryakin is the first to break the silence. “What is the mission?”

“Ah, yes, about that,” he responds. “There isn’t one.”

The Russian opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He turns to stare at his equally bewildered partners. Solo clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“Excuse me?”

“If it would help you to stomach it, you can think of your objective here as light reconnaissance. Cultural immersion. Whatever strikes your fancy.”  Waverly leans forward, lowering his voice secretively. “Strictly speaking, you’re not here as spies. You’re here as tourists.”

A blond head snaps up sharply, blue eyes searing with alarm.

“Where are we going?”

“Take a guess, Kuryakin. We’re in Anaheim… home to the Happiest Place on Earth.”

Like clockwork, the tapping begins: the Russian’s fingers drumming against his crossed arms with a harsh, staccato rhythm. The man himself is still reeling from shock.

“You—you pulled me from KGB to… to go to _Disneyland?”_

Waverly could laugh at the absurdity of it if he _hadn’t_ had to move heaven and hell to make it happen. It had been a labor worthy of Hercules to secure Russia’s top agent. This time, on a decidedly more permanent basis.

“Consider it a celebration.”

He turns to the other agents. “You’re all well past due for a holiday—and _no,_ Miss Teller, time spent _recovering_ does not count.”

Waverly peers over his glasses at them. “I pulled a few strings to bring you here together.” He smiles. “Not really a vacation without anyone to share it with, now, is it?”

It doesn’t surprise him that Solo is the first one to recover. Waverly had pegged him as the most likely to be on board with this plan… if only to stir the pot when it came to Kuryakin.

“I hope they give Peril here a better reception than they did Khrushchev.”

“Unfortunate business that,” he responds, nodding, “but that’s all water under the bridge. Mr. Kuryakin should not run into any difficulties during our stay.”

“And how long will _that_ be?”

A question or threat, he can’t tell, but knowing the German woman, it is probably both. The sternness of his tone is undercut by a fond, private smile. He really shouldn’t be choosing favorites...

“As long as I deem necessary, Miss Teller. There’s the theme park, of course, but also Hollywood and Rodeo Drive. Plenty to see and do in this corner of the world.”

Solo nods, already warming to the idea. And, judging by Gaby’s quiet hum, so is she. The lone holdout is Kuryakin, but he has sense enough to recognize a lost cause when he sees one. He keeps his mouth shut.

Smart man.

Now that the battle is nearly won, the Englishman turns to more practical matters. He gestures at their approaching destination. “We’re staying, as you might imagine, at the Disneyland Hotel. We’ll go the park via monorail come morning.”

His fingers steepled, his words carefully chosen, Waverly continues. “Given that it’s the peak of the winter tourist season, I could only secure two rooms for the four of us.”

Gaby stiffens beside him, already knowing what he’s going to ask. The Russian, meanwhile, has taken a sudden interest in his hands.

“Miss Teller, Kuryakin, you wouldn’t mind sharing, now, would you?”

“Not at all, sir,” she assures him with a pointed look at her partner. She’s tamed her scowl to something slightly more pleasant, but infinitely more revealing.

Waverly hides his frown. He imagined the pair of them would be playing it cool, but certainly not _this_ cool. Had their plum assignment in beautiful, romantic Annecy done _nothing_ to soften their hearts?

Oh, he knows, of course, about the two of them. Has known since he first saw them together in Rome. Their blossoming ‘will they, won’t they’ dynamic has been entertaining, to say the least, and he’s content to let them be. Even nudge them along a little.

Unorthodox, he knows, but who _doesn’t_ want to root for star-crossed love?

Waverly wants to shake his head at their stubbornness, but settles for a thin smile instead. “Excellent. And you, Solo?”

“Striking out on my own,” he confirms as he straightens his tie, neatens his hair. “You won’t have to worry about me, sir.”

The tram eases to a stop. Solo buttons his suit jacket as he disembarks. He lopes over to an idling taxi, presumably to get to the nearest bar. _Indeed I won’t,_ Waverly thinks dryly _._

His other two agents, however, he’ll be needing to keep an eye on. Gaby and Kuryakin step off the tram… and straight into character. He can see it in the artificial brightness in the young woman’s expression, the automatic way her partner takes their bags and guides her to the double doors.

Waverly follows after them. He bids the pair a good night and silently wishes them luck. He sighs. They’re going to need it.

 

* * *

 

Illya’s hand is light on the small of her back as he ushers her to the front desk. Purely performative and _purely_ professional. The young lady who greets them has a slightly breathy lilt to her voice. There is something like recognition in her eyes when she sizes them up.

“You must be the Kuryakins.”

Gaby’s fingers flex into a fist, while Illya jams his hands in his pockets (an unusual gesture for the man). _Waverly_ is their unspoken conclusion. No doubt their boss is in his room smiling at himself for his cleverness. She puts on a smile, but it is Illya that answers first.

“Yes.”

The desk clerk goes through all the motions of checking them in, but Gaby doesn’t take notice of any of it. So much so that she nearly misses the flash of gold on her partner’s finger as he takes the room key.

His wedding ring.

 _Fake_ wedding ring, she corrects. He must have had it in his pocket the whole time. The thought sets off an odd sort of quaking in her chest, a gong rippling all through her with an unbidden memory.

_You should keep it. As souvenir. That way I can keep track of you._

Is this what he had meant? Three weeks had passed since he went back to Moscow and was told to leave this life behind. Like his father’s watch, it seems, some ties are harder to sever.

Illya is already steering her to the elevator, a bellboy in tow with the luggage. Gaby doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare or even _trust_ herself to—not until the door of their suite has closed firmly behind them.

Not until they are alone.

“You’re wearing your ring.”

Illya halts, swallows, as he bends to grab his case. “Was needed for our cover, yes?”

“You must be a fortune teller,” she says, brow arched, “because this cover wasn’t planned.”

 _“None_ of this was planned.”

Gaby turns to face him fully. The implication hangs in the air like swords of Damocles. _He hadn’t planned to fall in love,_ his eyes seem to say _._

Neither had she.

Illya takes a step towards her. His voice drops. “You are wearing your own rings too, are you not?”

After a long beat, Gaby finally nods and unclasps the chain around her neck. The two rings (one pearl, one gold) slide into her palm, warmed by her body heat. Gaby expects smugness, not softness on Illya’s face when she slips them on.

He hums gently in approval and Gaby huffs, shrugs off her coat. It pools at her feet, a coolness seeping into her bare shoulder blades.

Her dress is still open.

Gaby stiffens. Illya approaches her, slow, cautious, like she is a wild animal who might attack him. She still might.

“You were injured,” he whispers.

There is no accusation, no outrage this time. Just an aching sadness, a resignation that leaves her heart pounding. She nods, considers.

“Wait here.”

Gaby kneels to open her suitcase, rummages carelessly for her pajamas. She avoids Illya’s gaze as she ducks into the bathroom. A moment later she re-emerges and moves to stand before him. Gaby lifts the hem of her shirt, drawing it to the top of her rib cage.

A jagged, silver-pink scar runs the length of her side, disappearing where her trousers sit low on her hips. Illya _tsks,_ cool fingers ghosting over the wound, the unmistakable drag of a knife. Solo had patched her up: precise, tiny sutures that even Illya couldn’t have faulted (her suggestion the man take up needlepoint, too, had earned her a glare worthy of their Russian partner).

Gaby inhales sharply, skin jumping from his cold touch and the heat it sends flickering through her. The span of three weeks erased in three seconds.

Illya gently tugs her shirt back into place, his hands settling on her shoulders. He studies her, memorizing. “I am glad you are all right,” he says. It takes her by surprise. Where is the interrogation, the revenge plots? Where, too, is the self-flagellation, his anguish for not being there with her?

Gaby regards him more steadily than she feels. “So am I,” she whispers and she can see he understands. The relief she felt upon seeing him alive and well—upon seeing him at _all—_ had been all-consuming. Palpable.

She steps forward, catching Illya off-guard by leaning into him. Her head rests against his chest a moment before she pulls him into a proper hug.

Nothing like whatever the hell _that_ had been at the airport. Illya stills against her, but slowly, hesitantly his arms wrap around her.

“So, you’re staying,” Gaby says. Her words are slightly muffled by his shirt, but he must have heard her. She can feel his body tensing, the involuntary tapping on her spine.

“That seems to be the plan. Yes.”

Gaby’s palms smooth over his shoulder blades, coaxing him to relax. His own hands firm on her back, warming her through the thin cotton of her pajamas. A thrill of possessiveness runs through her and she closes her eyes to it, breathing in the clean musk of her partner.

“Good,” she whispers and means it. “It’s not the same without you.”

She feels him shudder against her, his hands shaking from a very different type of emotion. He murmurs into her hair: a torrential outpouring of Russian broken only by her name. She can’t understand him, of course, and wonders if  _Illya_ even knows what he’s saying.

After he falls silent, Gaby’s arms tighten around him briefly before she breaks the spell. She retreats from the circle of his arms, the safety and comfort they bring. It is a boundary they both need, so she merely smiles at him and grabs her suitcase.

“I was going to go for a swim,” Illya says suddenly. The tips of his ears redden ever so slightly. “If you would like to join me? Might help with the jetlag.”

Gaby hums, gestures down at herself, where the scar lies hidden beneath her clothes. A warm, almost covetous look from her partner, followed by confusion. Sadness.

“Did you think it would bother me?”

“No,” she admits, shrugs, “but someone else might. And we could do without the extra attention.”

Something makes her pause though, reconsider. Gaby is halfway to offering to sit by the pool and watch him—and the idea is more tempting than she would care to think about—but her words are lost to a yawn.

Illya huffs out a laugh. “You’re tired.”

Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes, the rounding edges of his posture and the roughening of his voice, then so is he.

Gaby waves her hand. Airy, dismissive.

“I did just spend twenty hours on a plane.”

Illya regards her for a moment, a flicker of a smile on his face. “Go to bed,” he tells her and Gaby can’t help the shiver that creeps up her spine at that. “I’ll be joining you soon.”

And with that innocuous, but utterly ruinous phrase— _plausible deniability,_ Solo would call it—the Russian steals out of the room… and her breath right along with him.

 

* * *

 

Illya spends nearly an hour swimming laps around the Olympic-sized pool. Any outlet for his thrumming nerves, his thoughts of a certain, pint-sized mechanic.

 _It’s not the same without you_.

He wears her words like a brand, a reminder of where and to whom he belongs. Illya grins to himself as he climbs the stairs back to their room, taking extraordinary care as he enters. The last thing he wants to do is wake her.

He knows how hard it is for Gaby to find sleep.

Illya navigates the darkness to grab a change of clothes and his toiletries. A brisk shower later and he is hovering at the foot of the bed, drinking in the sight of his partner. _Sleeping Beauty_ , he thinks fondly.  _Just like the ballet._

His mind goes to Rome and the press of her fingers on his wrist, her long lashes curled on her cheeks, the rhythmic sound of her breathing. He thinks next of Annecy… of their ‘marriage’ for one euphoric, torturous month.

In public, they walked arm in arm, he opened doors and pulled chairs for her, she smiled and straightened his tie, kept up an easy stream of conversation. Behind closed doors, they were colleagues, friends even—careful not to blur the lines, personal and professional, when so much had been at stake.

They had shared a bed back then, and, as the days went on, Illya could have sworn Gaby was sleeping closer to him. Near enough to touch, far enough to make him think twice about it.

On his last night before returning to Moscow, Gaby had gone to bed with her hair down, dark locks fanning out on her pillow and in the space between them. He had breathed in her perfume, the subtle scent of her skin, the rise of her shampoo.

Illya had reached out for her that night, but a sense of duty, of self-preservation had stopped him. He did not deserve her, could not be with her, and would not, _could_ not make leaving her any more impossible than it already was. If Illya were to hold her, he might never leave.

He would risk a burn notice for her smile. He would _not_ risk putting her in danger. In a moment of weakness, when the skies first began to brighten, he had permitted just the tips of his fingers to brush against her hair.

Illya had worn his ring until the plane touched down in Moscow. It has never been far from him since. As the Russian knows, it is nothing short of a miracle to be given this second chance.

He eases now into his side of the bed, torn between keeping his distance from her and holding her close. His internal agony is needless. Gaby makes the decision for him. Still sound asleep, she rolls over to face him, her curled hands grazing his waist, knees pressing into his hip. Illya swallows.

“Gaby?”

She murmurs something unintelligible in German and nestles against him. Encouraged, Illya draws his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. He sighs.

Exhaustion and a deep, deep sense of contentment wash over him and slowly, blissfully lets his eyes fall shut.

 

* * *

 

She is gone when he awakes.

Illya’s hands sweep over cold sheets, and, for one terrifying moment, he wonders if it had all been a dream. He sees the ring on his finger and huffs, relieved. _Not a dream._ His mind may still be hazy from sleep, but he can be certain of one thing.

 _He is married_. Illya grins, giddy and triumphant. _He is married to Gaby Teller._

_When did that happen?_

Illya brushes aside that train of thought—it’ll come back to him later—and focuses on finding his wife. He wills himself to sit up, exhaustion weighing on him like so many blankets. It would be so easy to just close his eyes again…

But then he sees her sitting on the carpet, staring out at the balcony. The curtains have been pulled back and she is _luminous_ in the moonlight, her expression pensive. Illya frowns slightly and lumbers over to her.

He calls her name, voice gravelly from sleep. He takes a seat beside her and pulls her into his lap, gently nosing the back of her neck. A soft, low sound escapes her: a hum he chases with a kiss below her ear.

Gaby squirms, ticklish, and Illya can feel the shiver run through her, her hands gripping at his arms around her. He chuckles and presses his lips, long and slow, where her collar has shifted slightly.

“Illya,” she breathes. He smirks against her skin.

“Gaby.”

She twists slightly to look up at him. Even in the semi-darkness, Illya can’t miss the soft blush high on her cheeks. It entrances him. He brushes a stray curl back behind her ear.

“What is wrong?” he asks. “You should be asleep.”

Gaby closes her eyes a moment, shrugs. “Different time zones.”

Intoxicated as he is by her scent and her presence, Illya still has enough sense about him to tell when she’s lying. Or, at least, when she’s withholding the truth.

“What is wrong?” he repeats. Gentle, coaxing. Gaby huffs, rests her head against the crook of his neck. He begins to rub her back, drawing a sigh from her.

“I am in America,” she tells him, “going to the one place every _family_ dreams of going. Even the ones from East Germany.”

He hums, sympathetic. Gaby’s voice quietens, almost inaudible. “My father would have taken me. Had he… had I gone back with him.”

“You are sad that you have no family to share this with.”

Gaby nods, turning her head towards the window. Embarrassed, perhaps. Evasive. Illya draws her back to him, one hand cupping her jaw and guiding her to meet his gaze.

“But you _do_ have family. I am your husband, am I not?”

Gaby considers him for a moment, her dark eyes as indecipherable as ever. A low laugh and a slow smile. “Yes,” she whispers. “I suppose you are.”

Illya huffs. His thumb traces idle circles on her cheek and he leans in to kiss her. Gaby’s lips are soft, sweet against his own, but then there is a sudden sting, a sharpness when she nips him with her teeth.

He grins against her mouth, deeping the kiss as he picks her up. Her legs wrap around him as he carries her back to bed.

It is achingly familiar and thrillingly new all at once. Her kisses inflame and soothe and leave him breathless… even when they become slow and gentle again, a sleepy, cozy warmth to their movements.

 _This is,_ he thinks, _exactly like the first time he kissed her._

With a mortified start, Illya realizes that, in fact, it is.

He pulls away from her immediately, reality dousing him like ice water. He is wide, wide awake now. He and Gaby are not married. They are not playing a part for their cover.

This isn’t a mission.

This is a mistake.

This is a _mistake._

Illya is ruthless as he scolds himself. He fights against every instinct _demanding_ he hold her close, draw her back against him, and not think so hard.

 _Selfish_ , he thinks bitterly.

Illya flips onto his side, keeping his back to the mechanic. Gaby’s eyes are already fluttering shut and she is curling into him despite all his best efforts.

His jaw clamps, his eyes slam shut, and he suffers for her warm breath on his skin, the comfort her touch brings him… though he loathes himself for letting it.

Illya curses his weakness, wills the night to last forever. He isn’t prepared to face the morning.

 

* * *

 

Gaby stretches luxuriously on the bed. She hums, sinking back into the pillows, reliving her memories of the night before.

 _So much for boundaries,_ she thinks, not at all sorry for this turn of events. They are tourists here, off the clock, beholden to their own whims and desires. Why not act like it?

There will be time enough for professionalism and covers. And when that time comes, they will find a way to make it work.

Gaby is only mildly surprised to find that Illya is not in the hotel room. What _does_ surprise her is when she sees him at the monorail station. While Solo and Waverly greet her warmly, Illya merely nods in her direction. His features harden into a blank scowl.

Illya turns quickly on his heel and boards the train without her. She stalks in after him, anger blooming in her cheeks, and takes a seat beside Solo. He and Waverly exchange a glance, but they have the good grace (and common sense) not to say anything.

Gaby tunes out the pre-recorded narration, stares pointedly out the window, at the almost seamless switch from the real to the artificial.

They will disembark at Tomorrowland: an unlikely group of tourists. She, the blindsided mechanic, accompanied by the man who sees everything, but says nothing, the one who sees right through her, and the one who won’t even look at her at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is an homage to my favorite author, the incomparable Agatha Christie, and her play "The Mousetrap".
> 
> Up until 1968, Los Angeles Airways used to offer helicopter service from LAX to the Disneyland/Anaheim Heliport (located behind Tomorrowland). A new heliport was built north of the Disneyland Hotel in 1960 and hotel guests were transported there via tram.
> 
> Classic TMFU Solo, according to Wikipedia, can fly both planes and helicopters. Thought I'd give a little nod to that here. :)
> 
> Back in 1959, Russian PM Nikita Khrushchev visited the US and had two requests: to go to Disneyland and to meet John Wayne. Due to Cold War tensions and the believed security risk that such an excursion posed, he was famously denied admittance.
> 
> When the original Disneyland Hotel opened in 1955, only seven guests rooms were actually completed and available to use (though that number became 104 soon after). Each room boasted a color TV and a private balcony and many were made to accommodate a family of four. In 1961, the hotel boasted its own monorail station to take guests to the theme park. They could either disembark at Tomorrowland (and purchase a theme park ticket) or they could go on a scenic, round-trip tour through Disneyland and back to the hotel.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	2. Tomorrowland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience while I worked on my Christmas/New Years Fic and thank you all in advance for your patience when I inevitably try to do a Valentine's Day one. And, if you are one of those beautiful, wonderful souls still invested in and waiting for the next installment in my missing moments series... please know that it is haunting me every day and I haven't forgotten about it!
> 
> This story is for a little friends gift exchange I did with Somedeepmystery. If you haven't read her brilliant, BRILLIANT fic yet, you can find it [right here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338459)! Please be sure to show her some love. <3
> 
> Everything in this fic is accurate to the best of my knowledge and research capabilities, but I've included a sampling of my research notes at the bottom. If you have any questions or want to know more about a particular ride/attraction, please let me know!
> 
> Please enjoy! Comments are always appreciated. :)

The monorail eases to a stop, its doors opening with a soft hiss. Illya’s feet are leaden as he stumbles out, borne away on the artifice of the high-pitched, high-octane enthusiasm that surrounds him.

Waverly, their fearless leader, indefatigable and with a willful determination to gloss over any awkwardness (however potent), steers them off to the side. He smiles at his troops and Illya is uncomfortably aware of how acutely the man seems to read him: the storms roiling beneath his placid countenance.

The Englishman flings his arm out wide. “Welcome, chaps, to the future.” A roguish wink. “The year is 1986 and I have a _feeling_ we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Going by the American’s smirk, this is clearly a joke he isn’t privy to. Illya frowns, eyes wandering over to Gaby to see if she too is in the dark. The tightness in his chest, however, checks that particular impulse.

He is suffering too much as it is to even _think_ about looking in her direction. Illya’s ears are ringing from the iron clamp of his jaw and his breathing is coming in short, unsteady bursts. He clenches his fists, takes a moment to calm himself.

His eyes roam over the futuristic pastiche around him and he frowns. Though the paintwork and the scenery are immaculate, there is still something unsettlingly _dated_ about this Tomorrowland.

Waverly’s smile broadens when he looks over at him. “A trifle quaint, yes, but there is always something to be said about human ingenuity: not least in the innovations of the past ten years, but in the very _dreaming_ of such a space.”

There is a faint note, an intentional note,  in his tone as he continues. “From what I gather, Wernher von Braun himself served as a technological consultant.”

Illya’s sharp intake of breath matches Gaby’s own. Despite his best intentions and that urgent, blistering plea for self-preservation, his instincts win out. His eyes dart to the mechanic, reading everything and nothing at once.

Their conversation last night rattles through his bones as his concern begins slicing down his spine. The parallels are not lost on him. On _any_ of them.

Wernher von Braun, the rocket scientist, the _Nazi_ scientist, recruited by the Americans in exchange for amnesty and asylum.

Just like Udo Teller.

Illya edges closer to Gaby, overcome with his desire, his _duty_ to reassure her, to comfort her. But after everything that has happened between them, what could he possibly say? And what would she even let him?

He doesn’t get the chance to find out.

“Von Braun wasn’t the only consultant, I’m sure,” Cowboy says. “In _fact,_ I’d wager there’s a bit of Dr. Teller right here in this park.”

His eyes are gentle, voice velvet, but sincere, as he motions to the happy, wonderstruck masses around them. “Imagine that, Gaby. Your father’s legacy living on in all these smiling faces.”

One corner of the mechanic’s mouth lifts ever so slightly. She blinks quickly a few times, inclines her head in a small, grateful bow.

The American drapes an arm over her shoulder, before turning to face Illya and Waverly. “Come along now. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Starting with _that.”_

He points to the elaborate chronometer that marks the official entrance to Tomorrowland. “The Clock of the World,” he declares. “Tells you the time of any places in the— _no,_ that can’t be right.”

“What?”

Illya chases the sound like a lifeline. It is the first word Gaby has spoken since they boarded the monorail. A single syllable that echoes in the empty expanses of his chest.

“The time for Newfoundland. It’s wrong. _I_ should know, seeing as I was just there.” He huffs. “You can see it’s set to Eastern Standard Time, but, really, it should be an hour and a half ahead.”

Illya knits his brows together as he considers this anomaly. For all his contempt for this place and its saccharine, American ethos, he doesn’t think it is an oversight.

On any other day, he would have liked to study the chronometer in greater detail, investigated all its secrets, but, as it is, his heart is nowhere in the task.

Rather, his heart is with the young, German woman still tucked against Cowboy’s side, the one whom he is desperately trying to… to… to what, he can’t say. He is torn between push and pull, a desire to protect, a desire to surrender.

Duty, honor, and a traitorous, little voice whispering that he could have it all. _This is the place where dreams come true, is it not?_

And that dream, the one that got him into this whole mess, is going to be the death of him one way or the other.

Illya’s mind snags on those fleeting images of Gaby this morning. The sweet, half-smile on her face as she slept, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his recently vacated side of the bed. Her tousled hair on his pillow, the delicate sweep of her lashes.

When he had finally managed to tear his eyes from her, Illya had slipped out of the room and headed straight for the monorail station, pacing back and forth relentlessly until the rest of his team had shown.

Coward that he is, however, he had fled at the first sight of Gaby. He is a fool to believe she could truly be happy with him. A fool to believe she _couldn’t._

He had realized then and there that he makes a particularly graceless martyr.

“Everything all right, Kuryakin?”

Illya’s wild eyes alight on the Englishman. Waverly’s brows are drawn together, studying him in that uncanny way of his. He motions politely to his partners’ retreating figures. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

Illya looks over at Gaby and slowly, slowly nods.

He knows now that he would rather sacrifice himself at her altars than throw himself on a pyre of his own making.

 

* * *

 

The Trans World Airlines’ “Rocket to the Moon” attraction is admittedly impressive, though Illya is of a firm opinion that much of it is wishful thinking.

After all, man had yet to set foot on the moon, though the Russians—and here his chest swells with national pride—had already had a triumphant, unmanned lunar landing, while the _Americans’_ only success in that regard had come with an asterisk.

A crash impact. No photos returned.

Illya sizes up the replica Moonliner before him. It is a towering structure, taller even than the peaks of the castle he spies in the distance, and, apparently, is only a one-third scale of the ‘real’ thing.

He looks sharply away at the sound of Gaby’s voice. “It says here,” she reads, voice tinged with amusement, “that by 1986, TWA will be offering passenger service to the moon. In only eight hours too.”

Illya tries his best not to scoff too loudly at that. There is a spark of humor in Gaby’s eyes as she regards Cowboy and Waverly, a pronounced coolness when they sweep over Illya. “Who could have predicted it’d take half as long to get to _space_ as it would to London?”

The men chuckle, Illya right along with them, though the joke was evidently not for his benefit. The mechanic graces him with an indifferent once-over before turning back to the queue. Cowboy draws her attention back to them when his knuckles rap against the sign.

“Lucky for us, Miss Teller, we won’t have to wait that long. We get the whole experience in _‘ten thrilling minutes—all without leaving the ground.’”_

Gaby’s voice is bright with sarcasm. “You mean to say we’re _not_ actually stepping into a Georges Melies’ film?”

“A little suspension of disbelief goes a long way, Gaby.”

She makes a face in response to his chiding, earning a laugh from the American. Waverly interjects at this moment, pressing a booklet into each of their hands. Illya frowns down at it, flipping idly through the pages marked A-E.

“Your tickets,” the Englishman explains. “You’ll need them for almost every ride and attraction. This one here, for example, requires an E Ticket. _E_ meaning that it is a spectacle of the highest order.”

Illya follows Waverly’s example and presents an E ticket to the Cast Member (a curious term, he thinks, for the park’s employees). He mutters his thanks, notes the way the young man flinches at his accent.

A crooked smile rises to Illya’s lips. “Don’t worry, _comrade._ Khrushchev does not need to know about this. It’ll be our little secret, _da?”_

The Cast Member nods, uneasy, and bows him into the passenger chamber: a dome-shaped theatre encircled by three rows of seats. There is a round projection screen in the center of the floor and another one on the ceiling.

If he had to guess, Illya would imagine the screens would show the audience where they have been and where they are heading to next. A rather clever way, he admits, to communicate the illusion of travel.

Whether by a quirk of fate or the American’s design, Illya is constrained to sit next to Gaby. His heart is thundering violently, his senses heightening as they always do whenever he is in her presence.

But now that they have known _more,_ they reawaken torturously to the last time he and Gaby were this close: the subtle rise of her perfume, the warmth of her lips, the way her callouses would gently catch on his skin where she touched him.

Illya shifts in his seat, discomfited, trying to retreat further into himself. Gaby doesn’t acknowledge him and he _knows_ he should just let it be. But Illya can’t help but try to make amends in his own, misguided fashion.

They _are_ partners after all and they _will_ have to find a way to move past this, to work together again. If not…

He doesn’t dare think about it.

Illya leans over, his voice a low rumble, personal and private. “You don’t think we’ll run into any Selenites, do you?”

If Gaby is surprised that he has the audacity to speak to her—or to similarly reference _Le Voyage Dans La Lune—_ she makes it well known with a cold, disdainful stare. A long moment passes before she releases him, fixing her attention on the screen below.

Illya forces himself to focus on the rise and fall of his chest. A confined space like this, surrounded by children and civilians, is _not_ the right place for an episode. His hands start to shake and his eyelids slam shut.

From two seats over, he can hear Cowboy’s stage-whispered taunt, though there is something remarkably like worry behind it. “Scared of flying, Peril?”

He ignores the American, concentrating instead on slowly counting to ten. First in Russian and then again in German. He forgets his place the second a slim hand covers his own, warmth and comfort bleeding into him.

His eyes snap open.

 _Breathe,_ he reminds himself.

Gaby’s gaze is trained on the bottom projection screen: blue sky giving way to the star-studded darkness of outer space. Above them, the Moon begins to increase in size as their rocket continues its approach.

Illya doesn’t register a word of the voice-over narration, no doubt spouting facts about the moon and other celestial bodies. His command of the English language—of _any_ language, really—has temporarily escaped him.

How could he pay attention to anything _other_ than this one, small mercy? He finds himself relaxing immediately, viscerally into her touch: an anchor, a safe harbor in these troubled seas. His shoulders drop, his fists unclench, his bloodless fingers begin to uncurl.

“G-Gaby,” he chokes out, reaching to clasp her hand between his own, but she withdraws. Not lingering. Not punishing. Her task is done, and, seemingly, so is she.

It seems like the full eight hours have passed before the rocket prepares to land, the Earth gaining on them with dizzying speed and detail. As Illya staggers back out into the sunshine, however, he doesn’t wonder if his head still _isn’t_ in the clouds.

 

* * *

 

Gaby proposes they visit the Flying Saucers next and the American is more than happy to acquiesce, drawing her hand to rest in the crook of his arm. Waverly, though, begs off in favor of a different sort of attraction.

“I think I’ll go have a peek at the House of the Future instead.” There is a droll twinkle in his eyes. “I hear they even have a microwave oven.”

That leaves Illya.

He makes a noncommittal attempt at speech, but manages to convey that he’ll be joining his partners on the ride. Predictably, Gaby hauls the American along, leaving Illya to trail behind them alone.

 _Just like the airport,_ he sighs. It seems he will  just have to get used to this new arrangement.

The three agents present their tickets and are ushered into a rink of sorts. They each claim a gray ‘saucer’ and take a seat. There is no steering wheel before them, nor any intuitively obvious navigation system.

When the ride begins, Illya understands why.

These ‘flying’ saucers do not follow a set track, nor do they roll about on wheels. Rather, they glide on cushions of air in whatever direction the driver leans. Sitting still, with one’s weight evenly distributed, he finds, leads to a randomized, ‘hopping’ sensation.

Within seconds of these saucers taking off, a number of collisions occur, each one punctuated by a screech of laughter. The drivers, however, seem utterly delighted by this chaos and, indeed, seem hell-bent on causing as many accidents as possible.

Illya shakes his head, expertly dodging these errant saucers. He prefers to hug the periphery, content to drive unimpeded as opposed to the savage stopping and starting of his compatriots. A saucer nearly clips him and he scowls.

If nothing else, he can claim he practiced his defensive driving today.

He feels a twinge of guilt when he sees the girl’s chastised expression and waves at her in apology. She smiles then and heads towards a more engaging audience.

A saucer slams into him from behind and he jolts, whipping around to snarl at the American. The man shrugs, nonplussed. “You seem to be missing the point of all this, Peril. Ever heard of bumper cars before?”

A second saucer sends him careening against the wall. _Gaby._ She ignores his startled glare, regards him with her own, unfathomable stare. “If this is how you drive, it’s no wonder we got the better of you in East Germany.”

Is she _trying_ to provoke him? Even if Gaby is spoiling for a fight, he refuses to give her one. He huffs. “It takes no skill to crash.”

The mechanic tosses her hair, her lips pressing into a thin, humorless line, before she spins straight into the oncoming masses. It is a thing of beauty, a miracle to behold the way she weaves through the ten or so saucers, each one intent on bumping into her.

Not once do they touch her.

Gaby locks eyes with him when she is safely on the other side. She shrugs, before turning to plow viciously into all of them.

Cowboy chuckles beside him and shoulders his saucer back into the throng to join her. Illya’s vehicle is hopping again, still scraping and sliding against the wall.

He doesn’t make a move to correct it.

 

* * *

 

Illya ducks away from his teammates as quickly as he can, gesturing brusquely to the stately building nearby: lined with flagpoles and flower beds, plumes of water arcing gracefully up from the ground, and a large atom adorning the exterior.

The Monsanto Hall of Chemistry.

“Going to see the Chematron, Peril, really?”

“Why not?” he challenges weakly. “Is… edifying.”

“And deliberately antithetical to the idea of an _amusement_ park. People don’t come here to learn. They come here to laugh, to connect, to _escape.”_

Illya swallows. Doesn’t he know it.

The American jams his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “I doubt you’ll learn anything new there, but if exploring the ‘romance of chemistry’ is how you want to spend your time, then be my guest.”

 _“I_ think he’s just rationing his tickets,” Gaby says. Her voice is light, teasing, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “Like any good Communist.”

Illya sets his jaw, turning on his heel to leave. Curiosity gets the better of him and he pauses. “Where will you two go?”

“Autopia,” Cowboy drawls, “to see the National Interstate System. I want to show Gaby the future of American highways.”

“The cars run on a track, Solo tells me. I’m sure even _you_ could handle that.”

Illya’s pulse is roaring in his ears at this veiled insult-cum-invitation. His eyes narrow slightly, shoulders rising and falling in what he _hopes_ is indifference, as he all but growls out his response.

“I will stick to chemistry. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The Hall of Chemistry doesn’t so much as require an A Ticket, so Illya simply walks inside. Even if there were some sort of admission fee, the ferocious scowl he’s sporting would have been more than enough of a deterrent. 

Illya is hardly surprised to see Waverly. The man is standing before the Hall’s feature attraction, the Chematron: oversized tubes displaying the eight, basic materials found in nature. The building blocks of all chemicals, it proclaims. The very _fabric_ of our society.

He tries not to roll his eyes back too hard.

“Ah, Kuryakin,” Waverly says when he approaches. “You’re not going to _believe_ what I’ve seen today.”

Under the paperthin guise of academic interest, Illya begins to lumber through the exhibit, the Englishman at his side, going on and on about PicturePhones and television remote controls. Though he is loathe to admit it, Cowboy had been correct in his assessment: Illya already understands the science at a much, _much_ higher level than is presented here.

Eventually, he exhausts everything the Hall of Chemistry has to offer, and, as such, is forced to return to the outside world and the new complexities of his interpersonal dynamics. He reluctantly heads towards the exit when Waverly catches him by the elbow.

“Indulge me a minute, would you?”

Illya blinks at him in surprise, bracing himself for the oncoming interrogation. All the man says, however, is this: “Being a Navy man myself, I would _dearly_ love to go on the Submarine Voyage. Your partners, I’m sure, can entertain themselves in the meantime.”

Gratitude surges through his chest as he nods, following Waverly to the next attraction.

 

* * *

 

The Submarine Voyage operates on similar, simulated principles as the “Rocket to the Moon”, only _this_ time, they’ll be plumbing the depths of a more earthly (though no less otherworldly) unknown.

While he waits in line, Illya allows his gaze to wander over the lagoon. ‘Mermaids’ swim and lounge about; one woman waves at him and his cheeks warm, blue eyes falling hastily to his shoes.

“You know,” Waverly says, “Walt Disney was extremely disappointed that Khrushchev was denied admittance here.”

“Oh?” is all he can think of to respond with. Wouldn’t Disney of all people have had a say in the matter? As if reading his thoughts, Waverly shakes his head.

“It wasn’t his call to make. No, if Disney had had his way, your premier would have gotten his wish to see this place. He was _particularly_ keen on showing off his submarine fleet.”

Illya manages a smile at that as they climb aboard the _Nautilus._ He and Waverly settle in and soon begin their journey into the deep. Word of an approaching storm has the submarine descending to a safer distance… and headlong into the Graveyard of Ships.

Deep sea-divers navigate the ruins, combing for treasure to bring back to the surface and avoiding the sharks weaving and in around the chests.

When Sonar detects a polar ice cap, the submarine plunges even deeper to avoid it, traveling (much like the real _Nautilus)_ directly beneath the North Pole. Further and further they descend, to waters that no sunlight can penetrate, where the creatures become ever more exotic and fantastical.

Illya spies more mermaids (animatronic ones this time, thankfully), before the _Nautilus_  stumbles upon the Lost Continent of Atlantis. The submarine safely navigates the volcanic activity therein and stumbles upon a laughing, cross-eyed sea serpent.

The Captain declares that they have been down there for far too long and orders his crew to their battle stations to begin their ascent.

Surprisingly, Illya finds himself enjoying the experience. There is something uniquely charming about this blending of fantasy and reality and is almost… saddened when they re-enter the ‘port’. Turns out the American had been right.

A little suspension of disbelief goes a long way.

 

* * *

 

They find their partners in the Art Corner shortly after. Gaby is admiring the animation cels, while Solo is watching her with an exasperated sort of fondness.

“I’ve taken you to some of the greatest art galleries in the world, but _this_ is what most impresses you?”

Gaby smacks his arm lightly, shaking her head with a soft laugh. Her eyes widen suddenly and she tugs him hard by the sleeve. _“Look!”_

The American bends dutifully to inspect the drawing before them. He raises an eyebrow at her. “You like the chipmunks, Gaby?”

“Chipmunks?” she repeats, testing out the strange word slowly.

“They don’t have those in Germany?” He whistles under his breath. “Then I have _got_ to introduce you to my friend, Alvin, after this.”

He grins at her, considers something for a moment. “So, Mademoiselle has taken a liking to Messieurs Chip and Dale? Perhaps she would like a souvenir to take home with her?”

Illya and Waverly exchange a look, instantly on alert for whatever heist the American is planning. Gaby, too, must have a similar thought, because she steps closer to him.

“Solo,” she says, warning, though there’s something covetous about it all the same. It seems the mechanic really _would_ like a memento of sorts.

Cowboy brushes off her concern with a smirk and retrieves a pen and pad of paper from inside his suit jacket. The three of them breathe a collective sigh of relief, even as they regard him with furrowed brows and frowns.

The man refers briefly to the proper Cartoon Character Guide and begins sketching, angling the pad away from Gaby’s prying eyes.

He caps his pen a moment later and presents the drawing to her with a modest flourish. Her laughter peals out like church bells, eyes bright with something achingly young and vibrant. She flings her arms impulsively around the American.

Gaby twirls, raises the drawing high above her head as she inspects it. From Illya’s vantage point, he can see that it is a decent sketch of the two, grinning chipmunks— _more_ than decent, actually. The proportions are off by a hair’s breadth and the shading could use some work, but there is clearly talent there.

Illya doesn’t _doubt_ that he could do better (and is more than a bit tempted to do so), but if it makes the mechanic happy, it’s hard to find too much fault with it.

At the moment, though, Gaby is demanding that Cowboy sign his work. “Your full name too, _Napoleon.”_

The American winces at the sound of his given name, but he complies, carefully tearing out the page to hands to her. Gaby beams and tucks the drawing reverently away in her purse.

Only _then_ does she seem to notice Illya and Waverly. Her smile falters slightly and the lift of her chin is a guarded one. “We were going to go to the Matterhorn next, if you would care to join us.”

 

* * *

 

The Matterhorn is the most uncomfortable ride yet. For someone of his stature, the bobsled is torturously narrow. Worse, it is _shallow_. Illya’s knees are pressing into his chest, but at least his view is unimpeded.

He and Gaby are the bookends of this set-up, with the mechanic in the front and he in the very back. As they begin to rocket away, Illya gets the impression that the ride is somehow… unfinished.

There is a distinct disparity between the level of detail he has come to expect and the minimal theming that surrounds them now.

The sled dips in and out of the recreated Matterhorn to reveal glimpses of the park below, but the interior itself is hollow, with only a token attempt at verisimilitude. For all the astonishing world-building of the rest of Tomorrowland, the ‘rock’ walls here seem painfully lacking.

Still, the ride boasts a thrilling drop down to ground level that has Gaby alternately whooping with laughter and cursing vehemently in German. Illya grins as her words carry back to him, before the water splashes them.

He wipes his face on his sleeve, chuckling to himself. Indeed, if Illya ever regains feeling in his legs, he might go so far as to suggest they go on it again.

 

* * *

 

The four of them are wandering idly through Tomorrowland when Gaby halts abruptly. Illya frowns when he sees what has caught her attention: a small shop called Fun Fotos.

The object of such a vendor, it would seem, is to insert the guests into a variety of exotic and Disney-themed locations. Gaby eyes the pictures wistfully.

“It wouldn’t be practical, would it?”

Illya’s expression softens when he looks at her. “No,” he agrees gently. “It wouldn’t.”

Gaby meets his eyes then, searching, wondering, perhaps, about _other_ things that wouldn’t be practical. She nods, tilts her head to watch the cable cars pass above them.

  
Cowboy follows her gaze. “Thinking of riding the buckets, Gaby? They’ll take you right to Fantasyland.”

Whether she truly wants to or not, the mechanic nods. Waverly clears his throat, indicates the Disneyland Railroad nearby. “I’ll catch up with you three later. I’ve been meaning to see the dinosaurs.”

With this mystifying statement, the Englishman departs, leaving Illya alone with Gaby and the American. Cowboy looks between the pair of them, reading the tautness of their expressions, the tension in their bodies.

He covers a smirk. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Illya has just taken a seat across from Gaby when the American pauses. He makes no move to enter the cable car. “You know what?” he asks slowly. “I just realized something. I’m actually _terrified_ of heights.”

_No._

The whisper dies on Illya’s lips when he realizes what is happening, how his partner is betraying him. Cowboy grins, wolfish. “You two go on without me. I think I’ll ride with Waverly instead.”

He shuts the door behind him and waves them off, before strolling leisurely towards the train. Illya curses and blesses the American in equal measure as their ‘bucket’ rises into the air.

His fingers drum against his knee, his eyes roving wildly over the ground below. He looks everywhere _but_ at the mechanic; for her part, she seems intent to ignore him as well.

Illya should have known it’d be too good to last.

“You’re avoiding me,” she says. It’s not a question.

He flinches, eyes snapping guiltily to hers. “Yes.”

“Because of what happened last night.”

“Yes,” he sighs, hanging his head in shame.

Gaby hums shortly in response. She folds her arms as she leans back in her seat. “If you’re going to apologize or tell me it was a mistake, I don’t care to hear it.”

Illya’s gaze could burn holes into the floor as she continues. “I only _care,_ Illya, if you meant it.”

He has gone deathly still under her sudden scrutiny. Gaby wets her lips, tilts her head to the side. _“So,”_ she says quietly, “did you mean it?”

Illya swallows, fingers flexing uselessly as he finally, _finally_ breathes out his answer. _“Yes.”_

She closes the distance between them. Her pupils darkening with intent, one hand cupping his stubbled cheek, angling his face towards her. He lets her be in control, arrange him how she wants.

Illya keeps his hands firmly at his sides, resisting the urge to pull her against him, sink his fingers into her hair. His eyes are at half-mast, her breath hot against his parted lips.

“Whatever this is between us, Illya,” she whispers. “I hope you figure it out.”

And then she is gone, stepping primly out of the cable car. She leaves him cold and speechless, thrumming with an unsatisfied ache inside him.

 

* * *

 

The train alights at the Fantasyland Depot, but Waverly makes no move to disembark. “You go on ahead, Solo. Surely, spending your holiday with your boss is not what you had in mind.” He arches a brow at him. “Besides, I really _do_ want to see the dinosaurs.”

“Yes, sir,” he grins and sees the Englishman off. Solo glances up at the cable cars, begins making his way over to their platform. He catches sight of his partners and the pretty scene unfolding between them: a _deliberately_ unfinished kiss and Peril’s boyish, slack-jawed expression.

Gaby stalks out of their ‘bucket’ and heads down to meet him, her Russian partner needing a good thirty seconds to recover.

Solo pulls the mechanic against his side, ducking down to murmur in her ear. “I never knew you to be such a tease, Miss Teller.”

Gaby hums grimly, a tiny, mirthless smile on her face, as he leads her into Fantasyland.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wernher von Braun truly did serve as a tech consultant for Tomorrowland! A bit unsettling when you think about it, but Disney was all about verisimilitude. Tomorrowland has been rebranded about three times to keep up with the times. Shortly after the park first opened, Tomorrowland began to feel dated.
> 
> The Clock of the World did tell time correctly for every place... except Newfoundland. Hence, that is why I had Solo come from a mission there to point it out. :)
> 
> The best (but anachronistic) way of describing the Flying Saucers is to think of it like human air hockey. If you've been to Disneyland recently, they use the same principles for the Luigi's Rollickin' Roadsters ride (except rather than bumper cars, they perform choreographed dances).
> 
> The 'romance of chemistry' is an actual lined used in the advertisement for the Hall of Chemistry. I couldn't resist. :) Actually, Tomorrowland at this time was more about company exhibitions than rides, which Disney wasn't happy about, but there weren't enough rides or themed attractions to yet take their place.
> 
> There used to be 'real' mermaids at the Submarine Voyage until the workers complained about the safety and health hazards the working conditions caused. Disney *did* want to show off his submarine fleet to Khrushchev, but alas, he didn't get the opportunity.
> 
> The Art Corner was a way to show off drawing guides and old animation cels that otherwise would have been destroyed. It was a wonderful and, at the time, unique way to preserve the legacy of Disney animation.
> 
> I chose Chip 'n Dale for no reason other than I think they're adorable! Turns out, however, that chipmunks are not found outside of North America... except in Siberia. Gaby really wouldn't know what a chipmunk was (Siberian chipmunks would later be introduced throughout other parts of Europe).
> 
> The Matterhorn is another attraction that has gone through phases. Up until the 70s, there was no Abominable Snowman and not much care had gone into the overall theming of the ride. The one we now know and love is a far cry from the original.
> 
> Skyway to Fantasyland/Tomorrowland was a cable car system—and yes, they WERE referred to as "buckets"—that would transport guests between those two lands. The Disneyland Railroad takes guests to all the lands... and does include a prehistoric section with Dinosaurs. :)


	3. Fantasyland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! Thank you for your patience. :)
> 
> Research Notes are at the bottom, but I do want to acknowledge that there is somewhat of an anachronism that I have hopefully explained away by the Powers of Waverly (end notes will explain). Disneyland has changed just so much over the years—the lands are re-themed and branded, the rides have their names changed or the interiors/storylines are completely redone, etc—so please know that I am doing the very best I can to accurately portray what the park would have been like in the year 1963!
> 
> I'd also like to give a special shout-out to a guest named Kate who shared with me two YouTube channels that specialize in defunct rides and amusement park history. Many thanks to an unexpected research angel! Check out [Defunctland](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVo63lbKHjC04KqYhwSZ_Pg) and [Yesterworld Entertainment](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmOy2-vrvwDh6O1bTUB5m_g) for some very interesting and insightful content. :)
> 
> Please enjoy! Comments always appreciated. :)

If Illya could manage to regain his wits, he might be impressed by the dramatic shift in theming between the two lands. The stale, but steady optimism of Tomorrowland has been traded in for the rustic simplicity of a medieval fairground in Europe.

Illya’s blue eyes skitter over this aptly-titled “Fantasyland”, a place anchored not in reality, but in the dreamscapes of the imagination. It is loud and colorful and incongruous, but somehow it all _works:_ from the mix-and-match architectural styles to the bright, striped awnings, the coats of arms hanging over the doorways, the pennants fluttering atop turrets and finials.

And high above, the castle itself.

Cowboy nudges the mechanic with his elbow, gestures to the impressive structure. He grins. “Look familiar, Gaby?”

She nods, smiling almost quizzically at the famous German landmark: light, romantic, and unapologetically indulgent. _“Neuschwanstein.”_

“Re-imagined here as Sleeping Beauty’s Castle,” the man responds. “The legacy of one ‘Fairytale King’ to another.”

Gaby’s gaze flicks over the titles of rides. “Though rather than Wagner characters, we get Peter Pan and Mr. Toad instead.”

She laughs shortly as she wanders over to a quaint, little grotto area: peaceful, serene, and adorned with marble replicas of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. A charming sight if Illya were to say so himself.

His smile shifts to a frown when she ducks her head to peer into a well. She catches his eye when she straightens up. A languid shrug. A secretive smile. “It’s a Wishing Well,” she declares. “Just like I thought.”

He and Cowboy step up to investigate her claim: sure enough, the bottom of the well sparkles copper and silver. The nearby crowd and commotion captures his partners’ attention. In a moment, they will realize he isn’t with them, but a moment is all he needs.

Illya digs surreptitiously in his pocket, stilling when he realizes that his only coins are Russian. He hadn’t had a chance to exchange them.

His shoulders rise and fall in an embarrassed sort of apology as he regards the dainty likeness of Snow White above him. “I don’t know what the exchange rate is for wishes, but surely you accept more than one currency, yes?”

Illya drops the _rubles_ into the water below. A rushed, unceremonious gesture accompanied by a muttered, self-conscious wish to, as Gaby had said, _“figure it out.”_

He rejoins his partners before they notice he’s missing: a product of long legs, silent footfalls, and a convenient distraction. Illya’s brow furrows as he tries to puzzle out this strange tableau before him.

An anvil stands in the middle of the courtyard with a sword sunk to its hilt inside of it. An old, bearded man with a flamboyant robe is pacing back and forth before it, rambling in an agitated sort of way.

Illya leans over to the American agent beside him. “What’s going on?”

“A crisis of leadership,” Cowboy mutters back. “It seems Fantasyland is in dire need of a _strictly temporary_ ruler.”

“And the sword?”

The man shoots him a withering look. “I _know_ you know your Arthurian legend.” He sighs, pointing as he continues. “Merlin. Sword. Stone. Care to guess how the king is chosen?”

A vague, uneasy feeling settles over Illya as he nods, trying to shrink out of sight. The mage, he realizes, is now taking a noted interest in the members of the crowd. “And where, no, _who_ is Arthur?”

“He just might be you, Peril.”

“No,” he says, edging back a step. There is a slow, dangerous grin spreading across the American’s face that Illya doesn’t trust for a second. _“No.”_

Cowboy whistles, silencing the crowd at once. “Merlin,” he shouts. “Right over here, sir. I think I’ve found you a worthy candidate.”

Every neck in the vicinity cranes to look up at him, every eye fixing him with lurid interest. Illya feels his face grow hot as Merlin approaches. The CIA agent makes a sweeping bow. “May I present to you… _Sergei the Surly,_ our _magnificent_ malcontent from a faraway land.”

The crowd recoils slightly from him, but they’ve waited long enough for a champion. Merlin sizes him up, head bobbing comically as he nods. “Yes, yes, I think you are _just_ the right type we are looking for. Come this way, please. We have no time to waste.”

Illya remains rooted to the spot, half deer-in-headlights, half obstinate mule. He has no plans of going _anywhere_ with this impostor. Merlin reaches to grab him by the arm—a foolish mistake. Illya flinches at the contact, nearly throwing the man several paces back. The crowd  is caught between pressing closer and giving him space.

Merlin hesitates a moment, dusting himself off but doggedly pursuing his target. He motions to Illya from a safe distance. “Don’t just _stand_ there _,_ Sergei! Fantasyland is in utter chaos! Just _look_ at all these lawless, ungoverned peasants around you. We’re all counting on _you_ to restore order.”

Delicate fingers curl into the back of his turtleneck, steadying him. Gaby smooths her palms up his back, he relaxes… before she _shoves_ him out into the open. The mechanic meets his shocked glare with a saccharine smile, indicating the anvil behind him.

Illya’s shoulders stiffen as he obeys. He will do this for Gaby and Gaby alone. Not even trying to hide the roll of his eyes, Illya steps up to the infamous “sword in the stone.”

This is _nothing_ like the legends, he thinks. This is more in line with an execution: a detested foreigner in the court of public opinion. And that ridiculous charlatan waxing eloquent about birthrights and greatness is going to find himself on that anvil with _or_ without that sword.

Only a _true_ king, he claims, is worthy enough to accomplish such a feat. Time and time again, Merlin reiterates that sentiment. It sets Illya’s blood boiling, cuts deeper than any blade. The red haze is flickering in his peripheral vision and he forces himself to breathe, concentrating on the one person who can bring him back.

_“Illya. Calm. Down.”_

A pair of flashing, dark eyes and a husky voice laced with authority… ghosts from Rome that he welcomes openly. Merlin’s voice is an irritating buzz in his ears as Illya reaches for the sword, hands wrapping around the hilt like Gaby’s had wrapped around his wrists: determinedly.

Illya grunts as he yanks on Excalibur—immovable, of course, but that’s not what the Russian has in mind. If he can’t pull the sword from the anvil, he will pull the _anvil_ from the ground.

How would _that_ be for worthy?

His muscles are straining, teeth grinding together, heels digging in. The crowd has largely gone silent and Illya really _does_ think he’ll accomplish his goal one way or the other. Merlin must think so too, because he stops him abruptly.

“Admirable,” he proclaims, “very admirable, but the sword has not revealed itself. Its _true_ master must still be out there somewhere.”

Illya’s hands clench into fists, prepared to stalk off, but the man keeps him there. “Stay right there, Sergei. We may yet find a purpose for you.” He turns back to the crowd, almost histrionically distraught. “Surely, there must be _someone_ who could save us!”

Merlin’s eyes alight on Gaby. He hums, thoughtful. “Perhaps what we need is a gentler touch. A _woman’s_ touch.”

He and Gaby share a smile as he offers her his hand. He guides her to the anvil, the crowd murmuring in delight at this beautiful, petite woman before them. A muscle works in Illya’s jaw as the mage seems equally as enchanted by her.

“If you would be so kind, my lady.”

Gaby pinches the hem of her dress and curtsies deeply, impossibly solemn. She tosses a wink at Illya before daintily taking hold of the sword. Excalibur glides effortlessly from the anvil, drawing roars from the crowd along with it.

Illya does not miss her smirk when she presents the sword to Merlin, nor when he is made to stand beside her: a mockery of their size difference. He silences the snickering with a sharp sweep of his eyes, though his scowl does _nothing_ to wipe the grin off Cowboy’s face.

Merlin confers quietly with the mechanic before turning to address the audience. “The Lady Gabriella, our new queen—”

 _“King,”_ she corrects him. Off the man’s look, she adds, “You said yourself that only a true _king_ could pull that sword. I will accept no less than my proper title.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth quirk downwards, holding back a smile. Merlin falters a moment, before he recovers his place. “The Lady Gabriella, _king_ of Fantasyland, and her royal bodyguard, Sergei.”

A costumed cast member appears out of nowhere for the impromptu coronation. Merlin places a crown upon Gaby’s head and drapes a cape over her shoulders. She waves imperiously to deafening applause before concluding the ceremony for herself.

“Sergei,” she barks, gesturing to the trailing hem of her robe. “My train."

Illya glowers at her, but complies, carrying the excess length of fabric as she weaves through the crowd, applause and laughter chasing them like wolves at their heels as they depart.

Cowboy is wiping away tears as he tracks them down to a more secluded spot, sidling up to Gaby with a bow. He stoops to kiss her hand. “Your Highness.”

“Does this make you my jester then?” she asks, waggling her fingers at him.

“For you, my dear, I’ll be anything you want.” His blue eyes skim their surroundings, catching on a shop called The Mad Hatter. Another bow, then, “If I may take your leave...”

She waves him off.

As soon as the American is out of sight, Gaby turns to face him. Illya’s heart thumps erratically the moment their eyes meet. Her gaze is a searching one; whatever she is looking for, she must find it because her expression softens.

Gaby takes one of his hands, still clutching the train of her robe, and gently coaxes it open. The fabric spills to the ground, forgotten, as she laces her fingers in his.

“Come on, Sergei,” she whispers.

Gaby tugs on his hand, and like a small child, he follows her.

 

* * *

 

Cold hands, warm heart, and eyes that spell surrender. She can read it in him: the longing warring with regret, the ache and the desperate pleading to put him out of his misery. He has made her judge, jury, and executioner and Gaby knows that he will accept whatever punishment she gives him.

She muses on this as she leads Illya to the queue for “Snow White’s Adventures”. It is heady, that level of power, that level of _trust_ but Gaby has had her fun. He will still need to chase her forgiveness, soothe her wounded pride, prove his sincerity, but she has no desire anymore to see him suffer.

Gaby may plan on being a benevolent ruler, but Illya doesn’t need to know that yet.

He stands uncertainly beside her, throat working as he composes himself. His voice is rough, thick with emotion. “Forgive me.”

She waits.

Illya closes his eyes a moment. When he speaks again, it is not in English, but in German. A lengthy apology for her ears only, an appeal in her mother tongue. Gaby’s face is impassive as she listens to his halting account of the past three weeks, the leverage the KGB has on him, the ways they are looking to increase it, how he _needs_ her to be safe—

Gaby raises a hand, cutting him off mid-syllable. “ _I_ _know the risks and I would_ gladly _accept them for you,”_ she says, a sharp edge to her native language.

She hears the hitch in Illya’s breath, the tremor running through him. His hand tightens against her own and he seems to be struggling to find the words. If he says anything about not being worth the danger or _anything_ about how she deserves better than him, Gaby is determined to slap him.

_“You’ve figured it out then.”_

_“Ja.”_

And in his eyes is every confirmation she needs. “Good,” she says, switching back to English. “But don’t _ever_ do that again.”

A solemn nod from Illya before he slowly lifts her hand to his lips: a lingering kiss, warm and grateful, a promise of repentances to come.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Illya smiles, closing the distance between them. Gaby is rising on her tiptoes, tilting her face up towards those darkening blue eyes when their partner inevitably resurfaces. She sighs, pats Illya on the shoulder and turns to face the American.

“Come bearing gifts, Solo?”

“For the Red Peril, m’lady,” he announces. “I do believe I owe Sergei here an apology.”

The American ignores Illya’s scowl and reaches into his bag. “I thought these would make you look a little less… threatening. Not that that _isn’t_ a desirable quality in a bodyguard,” he smirks.

The cap has Illya bristling and Gaby’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She plucks it from Solo’s fingers and asks silent permission before approaching him. Illya allows her to place the ridiculous hat on his head, her nails scratching lightly through his hair, then trailing slowly down his neck.

As she predicts, the Russian looks _just_ lost enough to tolerate the headpiece. Gaby eyes Illya’s black turtleneck and the pair of large, round ears he’s now sporting. She arches a brow at Solo. “You _thought_ they would make him look like Mickey Mouse.”

Solo barely manages to conceal his grin. “The world’s grumpiest Mickey Mouse, perhaps, but... yes. Though I _assure_ you, Gaby, it’s for the children’s sake. We want them to see Peril as you do: just a big ol’ Russian teddy bear.”

There is nothing teddy bear-like about the way Illya advances on Solo, though the effect is severely undercut by the cap. Another grin. “See? Mission accomplished.”

Gaby laughs and loops her arm in Illya’s as their car (fittingly named “Grumpy”) pulls up beside them. “Come on, _mausebär_. You can protect me from the Evil Witch.”

"Mouse bear," Solo mouths to her, looking like all of his dreams have just come true. Gaby swats him playfully, leans against Illya on her other side. Darkness closes in on them and Illya braves a quick kiss to her temple as the ride begins.

Gaby elbows Solo in the ribs when he winks at her... before pretending to be _utterly_ absorbed in the story unfolding around them. She laughs and hooks her arm in his as well, finally starting to believe that this could be the Happiest Place on Earth.

 

* * *

 

Snow White’s Adventures, Gaby huffs, would have been so much scarier had the ride-makers remained true to the original Brothers Grimm story.

Solo had looked at her askance when she’d begun detailing all of the gruesome elements the ride had been lacking and then vowed to show her the Disney film the _moment_ he could arrange it.

Illya, however, had covered his smile and politely asked her to relate the tale of _Schneewittchen_ for their benefit. Much to Solo’s dismay and the alarm of all parents and small children in the vicinity, Gaby had launched into a sensational tale of homicidal rage and necrophilia.

She _may_ have taken some creative license when her memory failed her, but she’s certain she kept within the spirit of the original piece. The wicked stepmother’s punishment, for example—to dance in shoes like flaming coals until she dropped dead—is certainly no exaggeration.

“What?” she asks when Solo looks thoroughly horrified. “It’s just like the Wilis in _Giselle._ Dancing with either leads to death. _”_

Solo opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. He shakes his head as he walks off, leaving Gaby with a puzzled frown on her face.

Illya’s hand ghosts over the small of her back. “It was very good story, Gaby,” he assures her. “Cowboy is just being dramatic.”

Gaby hums in response, leans into the Russian’s touch as he guides her back into the courtyard. A familiar figure grabs her attention and she grins as she straightens her crown. There on the King Arthur Carrousel is none other than Waverly himself.

The Brit steps off the ride lightly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, a wry smile upon his face. “I see Fantasyland has appointed its new sovereign. Congratulations, Miss Teller. I just _knew_ that UNCLE would be the right team for the job.”

Illya balks. _“You_ set this up?”

“I may have had a hand in it,” he responds evasively. “You know me. Always looking out for the greater good.”

Waverly gestures to the Carrousel as it stirs to life once more. “Seventy-one horses, did you know that? And I ended up on the only mule they had.  They all ‘jump’ too as you can see. Magnificent, really.”

Gaby bites her cheek to keep from laughing at the image it conjures: her boss, the consummate aristocrat, bobbing leisurely up and down on his trusty steed.

The only sign that Solo’s composure, too, is slipping is in the way he coughs, before artfully changing topics. “How were the dinosaurs, sir?”

Waverly beams. “Absolutely extraordinary. I insist upon you seeing them for yourself.” He turns back to Gaby, the designated spokesperson for her people. “And where are you three off to next, Your Majesty?”

Her eyes dart between her two partners and the rides nearby. “Illya and Solo were going to spend some quality time together,” she decides, “and ride the flying elephants.”

“You Germans don’t have your _own_ version of Dumbo, do you, Gaby?” the American snarks, still a bit peeved about her canonical additions to Snow White. He grumbles to himself as he and Illya turn to go.

“And what about you, Miss Teller?”

Bright swirls of color dance in Gaby’s peripheral vision. She grins at her superior. “What would you say, sir, to a spot of tea?”

 

* * *

 

Waverly looks thoroughly charmed as they climb into their teacup, immersed in the quirky, vibrant setting of the Mad Tea Party.

Gaby laughs as the ride begins and they start spinning away. The Englishman has to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub that surrounds them.

“You look much happier than last I saw you, Gaby.”

She notes the more familiar address with a smile. She shrugs. “It’s the monarchy,” she teases. “I think the royal life suits me.”

Waverly smiles, sends them rotating in the opposite direction. “Remind me to update my succession plan.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, scrutinizing her from behind his glasses. It’s a subtle gesture, but Gaby can feel the way the mood shifts to more serious territory. “You seem to have done quite a bit already to improve your foreign relations. All’s fair in love and war, Miss Teller?”

Waverly’s kindly, knowing smile soothes the spiking anxiety inside her. Evidently, she and Illya have his blessing, but more importantly, they have his support. Gaby grins. “All’s fair in love and war, sir.”

The Englishman opens his mouth to speak, but his words are lost to the frantic, sickening blur of color as Gaby increases their speed further. There is no brake, no clutch on their teacup. Nothing at all to stop them from spinning off into eternity.

Somehow, Gaby manages to make eye contact with her boss. He nods. An unspoken agreement between them. She thinks she even hears the Englishman _laugh_ as they throw their entire weight behind the turntable.

 

* * *

 

Solo’s seen his share of miracles in his lifetime, but the KGB’s top agent wearing Mickey Mouse ears and riding in a flying elephant might very well top the list.

The Red Peril rides in the ‘Dumbo’ before him, no doubt aiming for realism in the measured way he maneuvers the joystick up and then back down again. Above them, Timothy Mouse perches on a disco ball with a training whip in hand.

Solo doesn’t dwell on that image for long. He looks out over the park instead, chuckling when he spies Gaby and Waverly pirouetting away in their teacup. How they will manage to even _stand_ afterwards is beyond him.

He spares a thought then for his Russian partner, banished again from Gaby’s company, though _this_ time, the mechanic had sent him off with a smile. Maybe she wanted to talk with Waverly alone… or _maybe_ she had wanted Solo to talk to Peril himself.

For once, the American doesn’t know what to say.

In all honesty, he’s… relieved that the pair has reconciled so quickly. He had managed to extract some of the details from Gaby this morning and was able to fill in the rest. Solo shakes his head, marveling at her self-control.

He’s sure the thought of throwing Peril under the monorail had crossed her mind a few dozen times since they’d arrived here.

 _No,_ he thinks. He’s not going to ask. Let them enjoy their hard-fought happiness today and _then,_ he can conduct his interrogations.

Right now, it is enough to know that his team is on good terms again… and that his partners have no intentions of going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

Illya smirks as Gaby and Waverly stagger over to greet them, both looking a bit pale. He had enjoyed watching them ride the teacups, even as his concern was mounting over the speeds they were achieving.

His protective instincts had kicked in… not just for the mechanic, but for his superior as well. Seeing them both before him now, albeit a little worse for wear, had calmed the stormy seas inside him.

They are safe.

The word “family” springs to mind, unbidden, simultaneously soothing and unsettling. Illya had used that same word last night with Gaby when the veil of sleep had not yet lifted. His guard had been lowered, so the truth—and it _feels_ like the truth—had slipped out before he could think better of it.

This _is his family._

Illya frowns. The word seems liberated from the shame he knows so well, extended beyond the mother and Motherland he serves for the sins of his father. There is something dangerous about the thought. Something exhilarating as well.

His eyes automatically seek out the mechanic’s, his legs already carrying him to her side. Cowboy is suggesting they head over to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride next, though, as Waverly remarks, it might seem “positively _tame”_ compared to Gaby’s driving.

The reigning king of Fantasyland still looks unsteady on her feet as they begin their walk. Illya _tsks_ softly and pulls her hand to the crook of his arm, slowing his steps to match her pace. Gaby huffs, but clutches onto him tighter when another dizzy spell hits.

Cowboy looks over his shoulder at them with his patented smirk. He has a brief exchange with Waverly before he offers his own arm to the Englishman. Gaby is laughing softly beside him as their boss accepts and the two men complete the short stroll to the ride.

Gaby’s ailments are all but forgotten when she sees their jalopy pull up. Her grin is bordering on wicked as she climbs in, Cowboy and Waverly in the car behind. Illya settles in beside her and prepares to hold on tight.

Despite all of the mechanic’s maneuvering, their motorcar crashes headlong through a variety of scenery, sending pedestrians scattering in their wake. Illya stifles a flinch at the havoc and hazards assaulting them at every step. He tamps down every instinct screaming at him to take control of the wheel, to shield Gaby from the precariously balanced objects that threaten to fall on their heads.

Unequivocally, this is a _wild_ ride, a pulse-pounding nightmare on wheels. He and Gaby careen into a courtroom where the Judge’s sentence hangs like Doomsday upon them, the finality of it alarmingly palpable.

Illya breathes in short, controlled bursts to compose himself, fingers flexing uselessly on the lap bar. He loses his sense altogether when he realizes they are on the train tracks.

A bright light comes barreling towards them, a whistle shrieks, and then he is lunging towards Gaby: pulling her close, bracing himself for the impact…

It doesn’t come.

Illya’s eyes open, a little lost when he takes in the scene before him. The temperature has unmistakably climbed several degrees as he finds himself literally and figuratively in Hell. Devils with pitchforks leer at him while Gaby is laughing in a breathless, nervous sort of way.

She takes one hand off the wheel to twine her fingers in his own, calling him back to her. Though a benevolent being has mercy on them and guides them safely back to the unloading bay, Illya will firmly maintain that _Gaby_ had been his redemption.

Illya stumbles out of the motorcar, veins still singing with adrenaline. He holds Gaby tightly against him, choking out a laugh. “Waverly was right. It is _nothing_ like your driving.”

 

* * *

 

After a brief foray into Neverland and a breathtaking aerial adventure over London, the team compares notes. Why call it “Peter Pan’s Flight” if Peter Pan is nowhere to be found?

“There was no Snow White in Snow White’s Adventures either,” Solo points out.

“Maybe it is because _you_ are Snow White, Cowboy, and _here_ , we are Peter Pan.”

Waverly interjects, leading the men in a rousing discussion on artistic merit and the pros and cons of a first-person versus third-person narrative for a ride.

Gaby largely tunes them out, her heart rabbiting away every time she thinks of how Illya had ‘protected’ her on the jalopy ride. Not that she would have expected anything less from the man, but the moment still preoccupies her thoughts.

Her first instinct, too, had been to curl into him, to hold and be held knowing that her attempts to steer them off the tracks would have been futile. Funny how this ride, this _fiction_ could make everything seem so real.

Solo checks his watch with a pointed clearing of his throat, causing Gaby to start. “Ready to abdicate your throne, Your Majesty?”

Gaby nods and walks to the center of the courtyard. She waves at the milling crowds who hardly spare her a second glance. “Farewell, my loyal subjects! Farewell!”

She turns back to the CIA agent with a look that brooks no argument. “I’m keeping the crown, by the way.”

With one final, longing look, Gaby leaves her kingdom behind… off in search of Adventure and the thrilling expanses of the American Frontier.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for next chapter: Adventureland and Frontierland will be combined into one chapter (there just weren't too many attractions at the time to merit separate installments for them).
> 
> Okay, so the anachronism! The sword in the stone has been around since 1963 (the same year the film of the same name was released). The *ceremony* with Merlin was introduced in 1983. Oops. Enter Waverly and my own, made-up take on how the ceremony is conducted (based on more recent accounts of it)!
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> Neuschwanstein was King Ludwig II's castle inspired by the operas of Wagner. It was radical in its light, welcoming, fairytale-type of quality, rather than the heavy, militant, and defensive styles long-associated with castles. Ludwig has variously been called the "Fairytale King", the "Eccentric King" and the "Swan King", for the way that he so strongly identified with Wagner's Swan Knight character.
> 
> Snow White's Grotto, like other areas of Disney, employs forced perspective to create an optical illusion: here, the sense that Snow White is of a different height than the dwarves. The eight figurines had been carved based on soap carvings that had all been of the same size. Enter putting Snow on the top of the grotto and the dwarves down below!
> 
> The Snow White ride, originally, was called Snow White's Adventures (the word "Scary" would be added later). Like in the Peter Pan ride, the eponymous character did not originally feature in the ride at all. It was meant to be more immersive that way, but led to riders feeling confused and a bit disappointed.
> 
> Mausebär is a real German endearment that I accidentally stumbled upon last night! I'd already had Illya as Mickey Mouse and Solo calling him a teddy bear... it just... seemed so perfect when I saw that. Illya got off easy, though. She very well could have called him a "Schnuckiputzihasimausierdbeertörtchen" which translates to "cutie pie bunny mouse strawberry tart" and ranks #139 on the list of German endearments. :)
> 
> The Carrousel does feature 72 'jumpers'... and, yes, there is one mule among all the horses.
> 
> The original Mad Tea Party ride was later modified to include safety features to control the speeds the teacups could reach. In 1963, all bets were off! The original Dumbo ride, too, has had a change in that Timothy Mouse now holds the magic feather rather a training whip to urge the Dumbos on.
> 
> Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, in fact, is probably the only thing in all of 60s Fantasyland that has remained relatively the same! Fantasyland, in fact, was re-branded as New Fantasyland in the 80s and was changed from a medieval fairground to a Bavarian village. Lots of fun and interesting tidbits coming up in Adventureland and Fantasyland that I'm excited to share!
> 
> Stay tuned. :)


	4. Adventureland & Frontierland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly two months since I updated this fic, so thank you so much for your patience while I finished up my Valentine's Day story (and subsequently, my holiday 'verse)! Just as a refresher, we last left our heroes in Fantasyland—Gaby had been crowned the reigning king, Illya righted his wrongs, and Solo had had his childhood (mildly) ruined. :P
> 
> My goal is to get the last chapter to you by the end of the month... and from there, I'll be working on my gift exchange fic and then dedicating my time back to my All Roads Lead to Rome sequel. I promise I am doing the best I can to get new content to you as quickly as possible (and admittedly, have been feeling a little stressed-depressed about my writing queue and making you all wait), so please bear with me and thank you again for your patience and encouragement. Trust me, I need it!
> 
> Research Notes, as always, are at the bottom. Thanks again for reading! Comments are always, always appreciated. :)

****Illya tugs at the collar of his turtleneck. The temperature seems to have skyrocketed since they first set foot in Adventureland. Illya would be intrigued by this phenomenon if it didn’t irritate him so much.

Here in this artful milieu of lush greenery and exotic artifacts, he has been thrust into the role of explorer. But, as his blue eyes sweep over palms and eucalyptus trees, bamboo stalks and other foreign foliage, his brow begins to furrow.

“Where are we? _Hypothetically,”_ he stresses.

“I thought that should be obvious.” And then, as if Solo thinks Illya is a particularly slow learner, he adds, “We’re in the Jungle.”

“I _know_ , but _where?”_

“Africa.”

Illya gives a vague hum in response. He’s not satisfied with the answer, but nods anyway, continuing his perusal with increasing consternation.

 _“And_ Asia,” Solo adds with a smirk. “South America. The South Pacific. Take your pick.”

He folds his arms, huffs. The sight of tribal masks alongside totem poles, conga drums and Tiki carvings have all been carefully curated, he realizes, to communicate—if not an otherworldliness—then at least an _Otherness._

Cowboy points and Illya tears his gaze away just long enough to follow it. His eyes land on an attraction called _The Jungle Cruise._

The American shrugs when Illya turns back to him, his voice tinged with a hint of irony. “If you’re looking to explore the world, Peril, I suggest you start there.”

 

* * *

 

Illya takes note of the Union Jack outfront as he steps into the boathouse. Big Band music swells cheerily around him, the odd news bulletin occasionally interrupting. The headquarters of the ‘Jungle Navigation Company’ are rich with curiosities, sundry trifles acquired from apparent years of river trading, and _yet,_ they are not what most holds his attention.

Rather, Illya prefers to see this space through Gaby’s eyes—her slight frown as she studies a display of pinned insects, the way her fingers twitch at the sight of an old-fashioned radio as if _itching_ to coax it to life. Or tear it apart.

With Gabriella Teller, he is never quite sure.

Her slim fingers curl around his bicep, pulling him closer to her. It takes a moment for Illya’s fevered mind to catch up, his eyes to track what she is directing him to see: a chessboard with improvised pieces of animal figurines and shotgun shells.

“Resourceful fellow, wasn’t he?”

Illya jolts, turning around a little too quickly to be natural. He’d almost forgotten that Solo was there.

Waverly too, for that matter.

The corners of Gaby’s lips lift in that subtle grin of hers, her hand ghosting over his arm as she steps away. Solo raises an eyebrow, but mercifully doesn’t comment on it. He glances at the chessboard before gesturing to the boathouse at large. “Walt originally wanted there to be real animals here, you know.”

“He did?”

The American graces the mechanic with a benevolent smile, clearly pleased to be back in the limelight again. He nods. “Besides the obvious safety hazards, he was informed that the animals would spend all day either asleep or in hiding.”

Gaby raises her chin. Defiant, almost. “But there _are_ animals here, aren’t there?”

“Animatronic ones.”

“Animatronic?”

The confusion in Illya’s eyes is mirrored in Gaby’s own. Waverly smiles privately at them, holding up a hand before Cowboy can elaborate.

“Don’t ruin the surprise, Mr. Solo. They will find out for themselves soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

From the way Cowboy had described it to him, Illya is fully expecting _The Jungle Cruise_ to be a sedate boat ride with documentary-esque narration.

“Dry as a bone,” Solo called it. “But the sights alone are worth it.”

As Illya steps aboard the pristine tramp steamer and takes his seat next to Gaby, he is thus unprepared for the adventure to follow.

“Welcome aboard the _Nile Princess,”_ the cast member says by way of greeting. “If you don’t think she’s the prettiest ship in our fleet, well then you must be in _de-nile.”_

Gaby huffs out a laugh beside him, returning the man’s grin as the last guests file on. Illya sizes him up carefully: Solo’s height and build… and apparently all of the Cowboy’s charm as well.

“Welcome aboard, Adventure Lovers. My name is Donovan and I’ll be your skipper today. You _do_ know the difference between a captain and a skipper, don’t you?” He pauses for effect. “The captain goes down with the ship…”

Donovan flashes another blindingly white smile as the guests laugh at the joke. Illya’s lips, however, purse into a frown. The man had freely admitted to being a coward. Without honor. _What could possibly be funny about that?_

“Turn around and wave goodbye to the people on the dock,” he instructs them. “Come on, wave! You may never, ever see these folks again. Granted, you probably never, ever saw them before, so you aren’t gonna miss anything.”

His teammates dutifully comply causing Illya to _tsk_ softly. He stares out at the expanse of murky, greenish water as the _Nile Princess_ embarks.

“As we leave the last outpost of civilization, we travel deep into the mouth of Burma’s Irrawaddy river. Here in the rainforests of Southeast Asia, it rains some 365 days a year.”

Illya can hear Waverly chuckle from a few seats down. He reigns in a scoff as Donovan continues. “Since we _are_ in an area filled with rare, tropical foliage, I’d like to take a moment to point out some of them to you.”

He starts indicating plants at random. “There’s one. And another. And another.”

“I thought you said this was going to be _informative,”_ he mutters to Solo.

“They must have changed it.”

It sounds like it pains the American to admit it.

It probably does.

“Like the Vinciguerras’ safe?” he snipes back before Gaby shushes them. Chastened, but unrepentant Illya glowers instead at the shrine to Hanuman before they enter into what is allegedly an ‘ancient Cambodian temple’.

A statue of Ganesha peers serenely back at him and Illya feels his scowl lessen. The boat drifts into the ‘Sacred Indian Elephant Bathing Pool’—a scene that nearly takes his breath away. _These_ must be the animatronics.

He is about to say something to Gaby when Solo grabs his arm. “You see, Peril?” he declares, triumphant. “None of this was here before.”

Thus vindicated, the American leans back, returning his full attention to their skipper. Donovan indicates the bamboo forest that surrounds them now.

“A botanist told me once that the bamboo you see here can grow to be six stories tall. I really think it’s more like seven, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

As if _knowing_ it would annoy him, Cowboy is sure to laugh extra loudly at that.

 

* * *

 

Between aggressive hippos, a headhunter named Trader Sam, and an ambush by the natives, the remainder of their river cruise is fraught with danger. The greatest threat, however, has come from _within_ the boat itself.

Illya doesn’t miss the way Gaby seems to hang on to the skipper’s words, her bright laughter, the smile that hasn’t left her face since they left. Donovan has subtly paid her more attention than the rest of the passengers, gauging her reactions to his jokes and seeming to deliver some of them directly for her benefit.

Why claiming that Schweitzer Falls was named for “that famous African explorer… Dr. Falls” makes people laugh will forever by a mystery to him. He chalks it up to an idiosyncrasy of American humor though Gaby and Waverly had appreciated it just as much.

By the time they return to the dock, Illya is more than ready to toss Donovan overboard and Cowboy right along with him. He is halfway to hauling Gaby bodily off the _Nile Princess_ and far, far away from _The Jungle Cruise_ when she stops to thank their interminable tour guide.

One slim hand rests on Illya’s arm to restrain him. A _hand_ sporting a certain gold ring. A frisson of heat shimmers through his veins at the sight of it. He’s certain she hadn’t been wearing it before.

“Thank you, Donovan,” she coos. “My _husband_ and I had a wonderful time.”

Illya spares a grin for the bewildered skipper as he disembarks, draping an arm over his ‘wife’s’ shoulders.

 

* * *

 

Gaby finds her way blocked by a thronging crowd. The people chatter excitedly as they jostle one another, all of them straining to get a peek at… _something_ just outside of the Hawaiian-themed building _._ She huffs. Her height and the shifting press of bodies around her makes it almost impossible to determine.

An accented voice croons over the masses, urging passersby to come inside for the show. Gaby manages to catch a glimpse of the sign— _Walt Disney’s Enchanted Tiki Room—_ before deciding to get a better look.

Ignoring the warning tone in Illya’s voice, Gaby ducks and weaves into the very heart of the crowd and gasps when she sees what has so captivated their attention. A parrot rests on his perch and seems to incline its head towards her in greeting. Its chest puffs out, its beak opens… and then that same male voice can be heard.

The bird is _speaking._

Gaby’s jaw is hanging open when the rest of her team rejoins her. Even Illya seems taken aback as the parrot continues its exhortations.

She gapes for a moment longer before she begins seeking the Englishman out. “Why aren’t we funding this?” she demands.

His eyebrows raise almost imperceptibly. “Whatever for, Miss Teller?”

“Think of what we could do with a whole fleet, a whole _flock_ of these, sir.” Gaby shakes her head, eyes wide with excitement. “The technology, it’s… it’s incredible.”

Somewhere above her head, Gaby can sense Illya’s long-suffering skepticism, a thunder cloud of Soviet disapproval. “This is how you propose we save the world. Talking birds.”

The color rises high on her cheeks as she whirls around to face him. “And why not? If you had _any_ imagination, Illya, you would see the applications.”

The Russian looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile at her—and to her immense displeasure, so are Solo and Waverly. Gaby scowls at the three of them, grousing under her breath as they are ushered from the walkway and over to the _lanai_ . “It doesn’t _have_ to be birds.”

She catches the tail-end of Illya’s smirk as his hand ghosts over the small of her back. “Come on, Chop Shop,” he says, mock-serious. “I’m sure you can win me over.”

 _I already have,_ she nearly snarks back, but then the wooden carvings around them are rumbling to life and Gaby leaves all other thoughts behind.

 

* * *

 

The Hawaiian gods introduce themselves in a whirlwind tour. Gaby finds herself particularly drawn to Koro, the deity responsible for bringing dancing to the world. She contemplates this as the doors open and the guests are invited to enter “a world of joyous songs and wondrous miracles”.

It is with bated breath that Gaby steps foot into the Tiki Room. A thrill runs down her spine as she anticipates the spectacle to come. She keeps a close eye on the myriad of birds scattered around the room, just _waiting_ to see what they will do.

For all intents and purposes, they appear to be asleep.

Gaby can almost feel the weight of Illya’s gaze as he watches her, no doubt cataloguing every minute change in her expression. She turns her head and catches him in the act. Illya quickly looks away, leaving Gaby to wonder if she’d only imagined his slight smile.

A female cast member welcomes them all to the show—and, as Gaby has been hoping—wakes up Jose, one of the four, white macaws at the front.

“Ah, _buenos dias, señorita._ My siestas are getting chorter and chorter,” he remarks. Gaby gasps, smacks Illya in the arm when he smirks at her.

The macaw tilts his head and seems to notice the assembled crowd for the first time. He startles to attention and alerts his still dozing co-hosts: Michael, Pierre, and Fritz.

 _“Ach du lieber!_ I almost fell out of _mein_ upper perch. Glad to see you all aboard—uh, ashore, or _verever_ you are! _Mein goodness,_ you’re all shtaring at us. We better shtart the show rolling!”

Gaby frowns at the cartoonish German accent. Beside her, she can feel Illya tense. He casts a quick look at her, but she ignores it as the birds launch into song, letting herself gradually ease into the music until—

“Isn’t that right, _Herr Schmidt?”_

She flinches. The punchline sails past her as her mind begins to churn, unbidden, through two-and-a-half decades of difficult memories. Her chest is tight, her breathing shallow, and her ears ringing with the suddenly tinny-sounding melody.

A hand, calloused and cool, moves to cover her own, anchoring her with a gentle squeeze, a familiar presence. Gaby’s pupils are blown, eyes darting, but not yet seeing her partner’s face.

It takes her a moment to settle her gaze on him, to focus on anything other than the specters of her childhood. When she finally does, Illya inclines his head at her in a kind of half-shrug. “Returning the favor.”

Gaby nods and nods and nods. She wants to return his smile, tiny as it is, but can’t get her lips to cooperate. They set in a thin, grim line instead as she tries to rouse herself from her stupor. She imagines this is what drowning in quicksand must feel like.

The mechanic has long since given up on trying to distinguish her pounding heartbeat from the drumming of the tiki idols. That wild, caged feeling is clawing at her insides. She’s half-tempted to check for bleeding.

Gaby shivers against the sensation and shakes her head, agitated. She wonders then if she’s only hallucinating the flowers singing a war chant.

Illya doubles his pressure, gentling her back with soft strokes of his thumb against her skin, the steadiness that seems to emanate from him. _Does he know?_ She thinks. _Does he know how a touch can heal as easily as it can ruin?_

He _must_ because he lifts her hand to his lips. He presses a very deliberate kiss to her palm, before cradling it against his chest.

And it is that surety, that _openness_ in front of both partner and superior that does it. Gaby drops her head to rest on Illya’s shoulder, a ragged, relieved breath tearing from her lungs. She closes her eyes to the sound of pouring rain and roaring thunder, waiting out the storms until the lights come on.

At the macaws’ musical promptings, Gaby finally opens her eyes. Illya helps her to her feet, not letting go of her hand until after he has navigated them through the crowds and to quiet place outfront. He grips her arms lightly, coaxing her to look at him.

_“Alles okay?”_

Gaby manages a small smile at that. _“Ja.”_

 _“Gut,”_ he says, before pulling her against him. His strong arms encircle her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other smoothing over her back. Gaby can feel her eyes drift closed as she leans into him, the sense of safety he brings her nearly overwhelming.

She parts reluctantly from him a moment later. Solo and Waverly surreptitiously arrive soon after, almost convincing in their innocence. Gaby holds her chin high, willing down the warmth in her cheeks.

The American makes a half-bow, the teasing equilibrium she needs. “Where to next, Your Majesty? There’s a treehouse nearby that we could—”

“Actually,” Gaby says, “I think I’ve had my fair share of adventure.”

She is surprised when Waverly steps forward. His eyes dance with good-natured humor. “Then I know just the place. Although, I daresay Mr. _Solo_ will be a much more suitable guide.”

The American sighs, feigning being put upon. “Frontierland it is,” he announces. “Come on. Let’s go find some cowboys.”

“As if we need any more of those,” Illya huffs, drawing a quiet laugh from Gaby. She doesn’t miss Waverly’s wink when she takes the Russian’s arm and turns to follow Solo.

 

* * *

 

“I think I’m detecting a pattern here, sir.”

Gaby bites down on a smile. She’s rarely seen the American look so discomfited or even heard that degree of wariness in his tone.

“Nothing like the genuine article, Solo,” Waverly assures him. “A jumper—even as magnificent a one as I rode previously—simply cannot compare. You’re staring at the Real McCoy, as it were.”

The CIA agent sighs and swivels back to face the pack mule before him. It paws restlessly, a stubborn glint shining in its eyes. “Well then, Mr. McCoy, what say you and I get this over with?”

“Giddyup, Cowboy,” Illya quips.

Solo deigns to glare at his partner. “Low-hanging fruit, Peril. You’re better than that.”

The Russian grins in response, a rare, smug thing that sets Gaby’s heart fluttering. “How about ‘hi-yo, Silver’? Would that be better?”

Solo shuts his eyes, as if praying for strength and patience. “It would not.”

Gaby pats his arm sympathetically as she moves to greet her own mule.

 

* * *

 

After parting with a precious E ticket each, the four of them mount their trusty steeds and embark on a guided tour through “Nature’s Wonderland”—seven, charming acres of the real and realistic meant to recreate the Old, Wild West.

Shrubs and pine trees dot the hilly expanse, populated by a couple hundred animatronic creatures and the odd, living, breathing bird or rodent that has managed to sneak in without paying admission.

Cascade Peak, with all its stunning waterfalls, looms proudly above them as they wander through various scenic ‘environments’, the so-called Living Desert, and the ambling town of Rainbow Ridge, which boasts, among other features, a church, a saloon, and an opera house.

Gaby can’t help but grin as she looks at her partners plopped incongruously into this setting. Waverly surprisingly looks right at home, holding his head high and imbuing his mule with an unusually dignified bearing. Illya looks almost entirely too tall for his ride, but the burly animal seems more than content to carry him. Her insides pinch a little when she sees him stroke the mule’s neck and rumble something low and soothing to it.

It is a stark contrast to Solo whose seemingly implacable demeanor has finally met its match. McCoy has a mind of his own, stopping and starting at will, breaking ranks in attempts to graze, and stubbornly resisting all of his rider’s charm.

Solo’s mask of cool indifference and seamless adaptability is slipping— _has_ slipped a long time ago. The man looks dusty and harried, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly when McCoy turns them both around.

Gaby waggles her fingers at them, murmuring sweet nothings to her own steed as she catches up to him. She _tsks_ softly. “The lengths you will go, Solo, to be the center of attention.”

The American glares at her, finally maneuvering McCoy to face forward again. “Funny.” He shrugs, an unusual roughness to his typical nonchalance. “We all know a low profile was never my strong suit.”

He musters up what he must _think_ is a roguish smile. “I mean, just look at me.”

McCoy tosses his head with a derisive snort, drawing a shocked laugh from Gaby. Her shoulders shake as she tries to keep her composure.

“You were _saying,_ Mr. Strong Suit?”

Solo opens his mouth to speak, but whatever retort he may have had is immediately lost to the loud, abrasive braying of his mule. The harsh guffawing—for indeed, it seems McCoy is _truly_ laughing at his rider—has Gaby almost falling out of her saddle.

A strong hand on her elbow steadies her. A slight nod, a private smile, and then Illya is several paces ahead. Gaby lets out a small, breathy chuckle as she watches him go, before focusing again on the trail.

 

* * *

 

According to the plaque, the petrified tree they now gather around is purportedly between 55 and 70 million years old. Cowboy, of course, seems to know everything about it, and not for the first time, does Illya wonder if there _hadn’t_ been a secret dossier somewhere.

“It was given to the Disneys originally,” the man is saying, “though I don’t think the missus was too keen on it. She ‘gifted’ it to the park not too long after.”

Gaby hums, thoughtful. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“You would want fossilized tree in your home?” he asks, indulgent, but also genuinely curious. “Where would you put it?”

Illya notes the graceful rise and fall of her shoulders, the line of her neck as she shrugs. “I suppose I would have to buy a house. With a yard. And a garage,” she adds, somewhat absent-mindedly. “You know, put down roots.”

Gaby’s grin is a hollow one. Her words pull at his chest, an ache that echoes inside of him. She must read it in him because she shifts, nervous, before abruptly turning on her heel.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m starving.”

The mechanic heads into the Golden Horseshoe Cafe, Waverly and Solo close behind. Illya stares at the tree a moment longer before hurrying to catch up to them.

 

* * *

 

By the time their meal arrives, the four of them are famished. Much to Solo’s chagrin, however, their Russian partner still regards the plate of chicken strips with suspicion. It takes everything inside him not to roll his eyes.

“Could be worse, Peril. Pecos Bill’s favorite food was apparently dynamite, though granted, he _was_ raised by coyotes.”

He can see the man’s brow furrow at that, the slight shake of his head, and the unspoken (and fondly pejorative) pronouncement of _Americans._ But rather than pick a fight, Peril chances a glance over at Gaby instead. He follows her lead and takes a tentative bite of his lunch.

Illya chews methodically, deliberately avoiding Solo’s eye as he tucks into the dish with a startling voracity. He polishes off his plate in a matter of moments.

Solo is almost tempted to offer up part of his own meal when the mechanic beats him to it. Gaby gives the Russian the other half of her food without a second thought. He half-expects the man to protest, but he merely smiles, ducks his head in gratitude, and attacks the chicken and fries with gusto.

 _Didn’t they feed you in Russia?_ He wants to ask, but the joke sours on his tongue. Solo glances away, troubled, and lets his gaze wander around the old-fashioned show palace. The “Pepsi-Cola Golden Horseshoe Revue” will be starting soon and Gaby and Illya will get to experience their first variety show.

Solo, of course, has already seen it, is already anticipating the look on his partner’s face when the dance hall girls appear… and invite the audience to participate in a song that’s _sure_ to leave the Russian blushing.

The revue features a number of skits that center on a traveling salesman. The infamous Pecos Bill and his lady love, Slue-Foot Sue will be making their cameos as well. There will be singing and comedy and dancing—something for everyone.

And maybe even Peril.

 

* * *

 

Long after the show ends, Gaby is peppering him with questions. _How did Pecos Bill lasso a tornado? Can snakes_ really _be used as whips? What does the Bear Lake Monster look like?_

Solo had endeavored to answer her to the best of his abilities, though he’s not above a bit of improvisation if the situation calls for it. Peril had scoffed, but the American could see right through him: the man wanted to learn more about Pecos Bill as well.

He’ll take it as a compliment.

When the mechanic’s line of inquiry turns to Slue-Foot Sue, Solo finds an opportunity to even the score. He is still smarting from Gaby’s _Snow White_ additions and has _quite_ the story to tell in return.

“You remember Bill’s horse, Lightning, don’t you?” He waits for her to nod before continuing. “Well, Lightning is more commonly known by his _other_ name, one decidedly less friendly-sounding: Widow-Maker.”

“Widow-Maker,” she repeats, frowning.

“So named, Gaby, because no other man could ride him and live to tell the tale.”

“And Sue?”

“Engaged to Pecos Bill and _insistent_ upon riding him for herself.” Solo covers a smile, revenge hovering just out of reach. “Now, a horse as particular as Widow-Maker would have—and rightly so, I might add—a bit of an issue with sharing. When Sue climbed onto his back, Widow-Maker _bounced_ her right off. So high in fact, that she hit her head on the moon.”

Gaby gasps softly as she leans in, completely spellbound. He has her in the palm of his hand now… and Waverly and Peril, too, by the looks of it. The Russian’s scowl has hardened, blue eyes snapping sharply to Solo’s.

“What happened to her?” he demands.

“She landed on the bustle of her gown and kept on bouncing. Days and days and days of it until Bill was certain she would starve to death.”

Gaby’s eyes widen, a sudden, last-ditch idea coming to her. “His lasso. He could use it, can’t he?”

“He did,” Solo says, “but it didn’t work. And so he...”

_Shot her to put her out of her misery._

The words stick in his throat as he surveys his partners: a star-crossed love story if ever he saw one. They are staring at him expectantly, clinging to even the faintest hope for a happy ending.

Call him soft, but Solo won’t take this from them. _Can’t_ take it from them. It would have been a petty, Pyrrhic victory anyway, he reasons.

“And so he tried again and again until _finally_ he managed to bring her back down. Widow-Maker realized the error of his ways and apologized to Sue who married Pecos Bill the next day.”

“And they lived happily ever after?” Gaby says, teasing.

“You know? I think they did.”

The mechanic smiles at that and after a moment, so does he.

 

* * *

 

His partners are up ahead, out of earshot, and seemingly preoccupied by the various storefronts. Waverly comes up beside him, a knowing look in his blue eyes.

“You’re quite the storyteller, Mr. Solo. I haven’t heard that version before, but that’s the beauty of these types of stories, isn’t it? There’s no one ‘true’ account.”

The Englishman watches the other two agents for a moment. “Pecos Bill shot out all of the stars except for one. I like to believe he placed them back. Rearranged them, so to speak.”

“You mean he changed his destiny.”

Waverly nods. “That’s _exactly_ it, Solo. Sometimes, we have to rewrite our own endings.”

 

* * *

 

A rowdy band of prepubescent gunslingers almost barrel into them as they stage a shootout. Gaby stares at them oddly.

“They sell guns here?”

“Well, those particular ones are replicas, but yes,” Solo explains. “There’s a museum nearby. Shows antiques from American history: muskets, longrifles, Colt pistols. The classics.”

He turns at the sound of Illya’s scoff. “I suppose you’re going to make a case that Russian weapons are superior?”

“It should be self-evident.”

“Since I’m assuming— _hoping—_ that you don’t have any period weaponry on your person, I propose a different way to settle this.”

Solo looks meaningfully at the Davy Crockett Frontier Arcade… and then takes off running, Illya in close pursuit.

 

* * *

 

Her gaze idles over historic United States flags and skims over the majestic Sailing Ship Columbia: sails furled, three, lofty masts, and a striking woman clad in patriotic colors on the figurehead. It is a full-scale replica, she soon learns, of the _Columbia Rediviva,_ the first American ship to circumnavigate the globe.

Waverly offers her his arm as they ascend the brow to the main deck. He pauses to listen to the sea shanty playing overhead and smiles to himself. Gaby is shocked when he starts humming along.

“Well, I _was_ in the Navy,” he says. “This was the only work song they allowed.”

Gaby nods, listening to the words a moment. “They’re going to do _what_ with the drunken sailor?”

The Englishman chuckles and explains the point of the song and other ones like it: to help keep the rhythm during coordinated efforts for hoisting sails and other tasks. In fact, he stressed, it was something of a necessity.

“Imagine being a strapping, young lad, Miss Teller, eager to sign on a ship and go see the world. Your captain, of course, expects you to prove yourself.”

“And what does he ask of me?”

“He wants to know how well you can sing.”

Gaby grins until she realizes he’s being serious.  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t know any _shanties_ , but I can probably carry a tune.”

“Then let’s see what you’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

In a few moments, Gaby is belting out the refrain of “Blow the Man Down” with the best of them, her superior taking on the soloist’s role. A small crowd gathers around and rewards them with a polite smattering of applause while they take their bows.

Gaby is breathless with laughter as they head below deck. She and Waverly take their time exploring the galley and sick bay, the quarters for captain and crew alike. Even the surgeon, she discovers, gets his own lodgings.

The occasional order is called above them, a tongue-in-cheek commentary that brings a smile to her face as they head back topside. She spies an island across the way and squints against the sunlight to take in the fort. A loud blast startles her.

There is another boom and then Gaby is pitching herself against the side of the ship to investigate. One of the Columbia’s canons, she determines. Her eyes dart back to Fort Wilderness: a ring of red, a plume of smoke, and then the island is roaring its response to them.

The mechanic’s eyes are bright when the Englishman materializes beside her.

“We _need_ one of those.”

A small crease appears between his eyebrows. “Please tell me you’re referring to the canons.”

“That too,” she says, grinning wickedly.

Waverly sighs. “I suppose you better draw up a list.”

 

* * *

 

Her partners catch up to them at the Casa de Fritos. Gaby nearly drops her snack when she sees the American.

“Solo, your… _head.”_

He shoots her a reproachful look. The coonskin cap is no less ridiculous than Illya’s mouse ears, but he _somehow_ manages to pull it off.

“A consolation prize from Peril here.”

“So you lost then,” she says.

Solo snags one of her chips in response, frowning when he takes a bite. “What’s all this?”

“They’re called Doritos.”

He turns the triangle over in his hands. Gaby swats his arm when he tries to reach for another. “They _do_ look like ‘little golden things’, don’t they?”

Illya hesitantly accepts a chip from her. Gaby grins at him. “While you two were playing games, Waverly was teaching me a sea shanty.”

“A what?”

“A sailing song, Peril.” Solo seems to have perked up quite a bit. “There are _plenty_ that I’d be willing to share.”

He deflates a little when he sees the number of children nearby. “Just maybe not here.”

Illya scoffs. “We have our own versions of these… sailing songs. _Ey, ukhnem_ is most famous one.”

“The Song of the Volga Boatmen,” Waverly says, nodding in approval. “Excellent choice.”

Gaby steps up to Illya, wrapping her hands around his wrists. “Sing it for me.”

 

* * *

 

The trek to Main Street, USA is accompanied by Illya’s rich baritone and the alternating refrains of _“Ey, ukhnem! Ey, ukhnem!”_ and _“Ai-da, da ai-da, ai-da, da ai-da”_ from his teammates _._ This time, their (clearly Russian) singing is met with slack-jawed looks and worried whispers.

“Don’t worry,” Solo calls to the passersby. “It’s not like he’s a KGB spy.”

Gaby smacks his arm, stifling a laugh as the people scamper away. Illya shakes his head at them, a smile pulling at his lips as he raises his voice to sing louder.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jungle Cruise has gone through quite a few changes from the 60s until today. The Indiana Jones ride, in particular, brought about the 'weathering' of the tramp steamers to give them an older, rougher look, the specific dating of 1938 for the boathouse to coincide with the film, and even the re-routing of the ride to accommodate its construction. 
> 
> Also, original Jungle Cruise—the one Solo was familiar with—did initially play out like a nature documentary. It wasn't until 1962 that the jokes were added in and it became more about entertainment than pure education. Some of the tableaus you may be familiar with (the gorillas overtaking the campsite with the flipped over jeep and the African veldt scene with the lions, for example, wouldn't come until much later). 
> 
> I culled together different scripts for The Jungle Cruise and tweaked some of the lines a bit to give you Donovan's lines from the story and added a little bit of my own. Regarding the Tiki Room, I found the original script and transcribed it exactly how the accents were stylized.
> 
> Speaking of the Tiki Room, it opened in 1963 and featured the world's first audio-animatronics. The bird out front is named Juan (he's Jose's cousin) and took on the role of a 'barker' to attract the crowds. He proved to be a bit TOO good at his job and caused massive pileups of people craning to get a look at what was then (and still is) a truly remarkable marvel of engineering. The birds are all covered with real feathers, but the cashmere on their chest allows for the 'breathing' to look realistic.
> 
> When the team would have seen the show, the four 'hosts' were largely identical: white with colorful markings. It won't be until later that they take on the colors of their nationalities' flags. This has led to some outcry because Fritz, the German bird, had Nazi-associated white rather than the standard gold of the German flag. Various anti-Semitic organizations have called for its removal and I think it has been changed, though I'm not sure if that is true for every park.
> 
> Disney DID, in fact, offer mule rides once upon a time. It was too good of an attraction not to include it! :)
> 
> The story of Slue-Foot Sue and Widow-Maker has various versions to it. Bill lassos her down in one, but she's so traumatized that she never speaks to him again (even after Widow-Maker apologizes). There's one where she lands on the moon and is stuck there, so Pecos Bill leaves civilization to return to living with the coyotes, who now howl at the moon in her honor. The story Waverly references has Bill shooting out all of the stars except for one—the Lone Star—as part of his courtship of Sue.
> 
> Disneyland indeed used to sell guns and gun replicas and have staged shoot-outs in Frontierland. The museum Solo mentions is the American Rifle Museum and Gun Shop and he and Illya have their friendly competition at the Davy Crockett Arcade which featured classic shooting games, the occasional visit from Davy Crockett, and had a general store with sundry items (hence the coonskin cap).
> 
> "What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?" really was the only work song allowed in the Royal Navy. Found that out while looking up the lyrics and had to work it in there somewhere. And yes, singing was pretty much a MUST for sailors. :)
> 
> Doritos WERE invented at Disneyland! The workers at the Casa de Fritos wanted to find a way to use the old tortillas so they deep-fried and seasoned them and thus, an early version of Doritos was born. The FritoLay company noticed the success of the product and began to market them regionally and then nationally in 1964. 
> 
> The Song of the Volga Boatmen is an extremely well-known and popular Russian folk song and was a staple for long voyages. The refrain of "ey, ukhnem" is similar to "yo, heave ho".


	5. Main Street, U.S.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sdm, thank you for your saintlike patience while I took on a million other projects on the side. Your endless positivity keeps me going!<3
> 
> And thank YOU to everyone else for all of your support and the kind words of encouragement! This has been so much fun to write, even when I've run into some rough patches along the way. I hope you all enjoy this final installment... please be sure to let me know what you think! I truly love to hear from you, so please don't be shy!
> 
> I'll be focusing on my gift exchange fic from now until June depending on how involved it ends up being. In the meantime, I do hope to post a couple of (tentatively) finished 'excerpts' from my Story Vault that I wrote a while back... but who knows? There might be some new stuff coming down the pipe too. Stay tuned. :P
> 
> Research Notes at the bottom. Thank you so much for reading! Comments always welcome. :)

Main Street, U.S.A. is exactly what it says on the tin: the most typical street in the most typical town to ever exist in this great nation. With sweet, turn-of-the-century architecture ranging from the gingerbread constructions of the Victorian Era to more modern, art deco influences, this charming cityscape is as American as apple pie.

Solo doesn’t trust it for a second.

He jams his hands in his pockets, all curated casualness as he strolls through the town square. A horse-drawn streetcar ambles leisurely past and the mechanic stares out after it. Solo manages to grin. A clever remark, a factoid or two are dancing on the tip of his tongue when Illya speaks.

“Homesick, Cowboy?”

“Come on, Peril,” he scoffs. “You’ve seen New York.”

But not _his_ New York: world weary and Depression-blighted. The shambling tenements, ancient and overcrowded. Those were mean streets and lean times for the immigrants’ son. A far cry from this wholesome _familiarity_ so foreign to his own upbringing.

And still, this place strikes a chord of nostalgia within him.

He shakes it off.

Under the guise of ‘window shopping’, Solo apprises himself in the glass: exquisitely-tailored suit, abominable coonskin cap, and, the finishing touch on the ensemble, his trademark, implacable smirk. No visible cracks in the veneer.

He would wink at himself if it didn’t feel so dreadfully rehearsed. As it is, Solo is content to fall back into step with his teammates and let someone else carry the conversation. He tunes out the idle chatter until he hears Gaby cry out.

_“Gott!”_

She stumbles back into him, pointing at a large, glass jar in the storefront. Dark, wriggling shapes can be seen writhing within it. Peril assesses this peculiarity, hums.

“Leeches.”

Gaby shudders. She regards the offending Upjohn Pharmacy display with a mix of horror and revulsion. _Maybe,_ Solo notes, even a perverse bit of interest too. Illya must sense it as well because he gestures to the door.

“You want to go in?”

Solo’s eyes dart over the old-timey apothecary shop with ever-increasing foreboding. Leaded chandeliers illuminate antique microscopes, a collection of syringes, and a swathe of other pharmaceutical relics. A chill runs through him.

“And see the instruments of torture?” Solo asks, already edging away. “Don’t think I can stomach it.”

Gaby’s face falls. “We don’t have to—”

“Please, go ahead.” Smile or grimace, he can’t tell, but plasters it on anyway. “Indulge that sadistic curiosity of yours. I’m sure _you’ll_ get a kick out of it.”

The implication, naturally, hits him much too late and with all the subtlety of a freight train. The permanence too. He doubts there’s a way out of this one.

Solo expects to see hurt in the mechanic’s expression. Something bitter and cold and angry, fueled by guilt and righteous indignation. What he gets instead are downcast eyes, a tightening of her jaw, and a quiet resignation.

 _Where’s the fire?_ He wants to yell. _Where are the accusations, the biting, underhanded comments? Anything_ that could make his ego feel justified. The mechanic turns away.

“Gaby, wait. I—”

“It’s fine.” She looks anywhere but at him, dark eyes catching on a shop in the distance. “I saw something about glass-blowing earlier. I think I’d rather do that.”

The mechanic turns on her heel and all but flies in the opposite direction. Waverly discreetly slips inside the apothecary, leaving Solo to face the Russian alone.

“Don’t lecture me,” he huffs.

“I wasn’t.”

He glances up at his partner. The man’s arms are crossed loosely over his chest, his fingers unsettlingly still. Illya is calm, but not deceptively so. And that worries him.

“You’re not?”

“You are going to fix this, yes?”

He nods.

“Good. Then I trust you can handle this yourself.”

Solo pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Believe it or not, Peril, I’ve been in this position before.”

“You mean you’ve told _other_ women they take after their psychopath uncles?”

“You’d be surprised.” He shrugs, not quite as flippantly as he’d like, but it’s a start. “Come on. I’ve got an idea. What’s more, I’m even willing to pretend you get a say in it.”

Illya rolls his eyes but follows after him.

 

* * *

 

“These are fake.”

The American adopts a wounded air. “What are you talking about? These are the finest natural flowers _not_ made by nature.”

Illya sneers at that. _“Plastic.”_

 _“Eternal,”_ is his partner’s correction. “Much like my undying affection.”

 _And just as real too_ , he wants to say, but thinks better of it. He knows Cowboy cares for Gaby, knows he genuinely wants to make amends. Illya was ready to make sure of that.

Solo continues his perusal, smoothing a hand over the synthetic blossoms, and finally settling on a dozen yellow roses: the classic signifier of both friendship and apologies. He fixes Illya with an irritated look. “Problem?”

“Is classic choice,” he says. “Safe. _Very_ unlike you.”

“You’d rather I get her tulips then? Carnations? Orchids?”

“Purple hyacinths, perhaps.”

Solo hefts the bouquet in his hands. “I’m trying to communicate sincerity here. Not how many ways I can say ‘I’m sorry’ in flower. It’s not about me, right?”

The corner of Illya’s lips twitch into a smile. Guilt does strange, humbling things to his American counterpart. “No,” he agrees. “It is not.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby catches a glimpse of Illya as she leaves the Crystal Arts shop: a pair of Mickey Mouse ears and a dark turtleneck stooping to enter the Camera Center. Her heart does an odd, little flip as she steps out into Main Street and waits for a double-decker bus to pass.

Waverly materializes on the other side like a vision from a dream. Gaby starts, nearly drops the small, glass bottle he tosses to her.

“Good for what ails you,” he claims.

Gaby rattles the cheery-looking orange pills inside, arches an eyebrow at him. Her superior smiles. “Vitamins.”

“Ah.” She tucks the square bottle into her purse. “Thank you.”

“Are you all right?”

She nods. “Just needed a few minutes to myself.”

Waverly stares at something just over her shoulder, lowering his voice slightly. “If you need a few more, Miss Teller, I can make the necessary arrangements.”

 _A diversion,_ she muses. _Perhaps a direct order._

“It’s okay, Alex. I’ll be fine.”

Those kindly blue eyes search hers for a moment before he bows his head in acknowledgement. He pats her on the arm. “I’d better go check on Kuryakin then.”

“He’s in the—”

Waverly smiles at her over his shoulder, already heading in that direction. Gaby chuckles and turns around… right into the American’s chest.

Solo catches her by the forearm when she stumbles backwards, yellow roses spilling around her feet. She frowns as he gathers them back up and presents them to her.

“Forgive me,” he says. Straight to the point. Sincere. Not the extravagant apology she’d been expecting. Somehow, she’s grateful for it. “I wasn’t thinking—”

“Neither was I.” Gaby shakes her head.“It didn’t even occur to me that that place could be… difficult for you.”

A beat, then...

“You’re nothing like him, you know.”

She shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m my own woman, remember?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. There’s a shadow of a grin there before his brow knits and he frowns. “You know, I think this apology is getting away from me.”

“Keep _up,_ Solo. Your queen has officially pardoned you.”

The American blinks, huffs out a surprised, grateful laugh. He bends to kiss her ring. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

 

* * *

 

Illya’s keen gaze absorbs everything the Main Street Camera Center has to offer. Sponsored by GAF, the place is a one-stop shop for the budding photographer—besides selling all the necessary equipment (and with  an impressive variety too), they also handle rentals and repairs.

He smirks inwardly, wonders what they would think if he brought in his _Exacta._ Illya is idly comparing glass slides when Waverly approaches him. He spreads a park map out over the glass display case.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it? They have photo stations all over the park and what’s more, they’ll even process the film for you.” A weighted pause, a benign smile. “They’ll even mail the pictures _home_ to you. Fancy that.”

The Englishman drifts away, deliberately leaving the map behind.

 

* * *

 

“Good for what ails you,” Gaby quips as she hands him a spoon.

Waverly can feel his eyebrows inching up to his hairline as he stares at the “Mammoth Matterhorn Mountain”—allegedly, one of the world’s largest sundaes. There are five, generous scoops of ice cream, sliced bananas and pineapples, chopped almonds, whipped cream, and a myriad of other toppings besides.

Gaby snags the cherry on top and tucks in with gusto. He glances over at Kuryakin whose reluctance appears to mirror his own. At least he’s not the only one at a loss by this offering.

The Russian, of course, had protested the decision. He’d  campaigned vociferously for “real” food: hot sandwiches and bowls of soup. Salads. He was even willing to compromise with cheeseburgers. But with Germany and America back in alliance, indulgence had been the name of the game.

He grins at Kuryakin as they both take their first, tentative bite of the sundae: rich, creamy, the pinnacle of Western decadence. The KGB agent doesn’t seem to mind. He hums around his spoon before diving back in with an almost alarming alacrity.

The KGB suddenly stills, face scrunching up, hand threatening to snap the spoon in two. Waverly has to work hard to suppress his smile.

“Feel that in your brain, Peril?”

“I don’t… understand,” he grits out in response. “What is _happening?”_

Waverly nods sagely. _“Sphinopalatine ganglioneuralgia.”_

Even Gaby looks impressed by that, her laughter quieting down as she stares at him. Illya begins blinking furiously at him. “Is… is _bad?”_

“Temporary nuisance. Just breathe in through your mouth and out through your nose and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Kuryakin nods and does as instructed, glaring heatedly at his two partners. Gaby trails her hand down his arm, grinning up at him.

_“Alles okay?”_

_“Ja.”_

_“Gut,”_ she says.

Waverly can’t help the surge of affection bubbling up in his chest at that. He’s rooting for the two of them. Rooting for all of them.

“We call those ice-cream headaches. It’s something of a rite of passage,” Solo says. That ever-present smirk reasserts itself as he claps the man on the back. “Congratulations, Peril. You’re a man now.”

The KGB agent glowers at him before reaching to take another bite.

 

* * *

 

The sun is dipping low on the horizon when they finally exit the Ice Cream Parlor. As they head towards the town square, a marching band sounds from somewhere behind them. Solo turns, heart beating in time with the patriotic melody, and watches as they pass.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he mutters. His feet are already carrying him after the performers, an unexplainable force demanding he follow. A crowd is assembling around the flagpole and Solo joins their ranks, removing his cap automatically.

The Dapper Dans are midway through “America the Beautiful” when his teammates catch up to him. A security guard welcomes all of them and invites former and active members of the military to come forward when their branch is called.

The band strikes up “The Army Goes Rolling Along” and Solo passes his hat to Gaby without a second thought. He moves to take his place on the outer ring of the flagpole and shakes hands with the other Army servicemen gathered—a veteran of the Great War and two from Korea. He stands tall, his soul fortified by those familiar strains.

They’d only adopted it as the official song about ten years ago, given it new lyrics and a new name too, but the music… well, the music had been a part of Solo since he was sixteen.

The Marines are the next to be recognized, followed by the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard. More and more men and women step forward as their branch’s hymn is played. By the time the color guard arrives to retire the American and state flags for the evening, Solo is feeling choked up with emotion.

And for once, he doesn’t care about the cracks.

When was the last time he had felt so much patriotism, so much _pride_ in his country? Felt _deserving_ of it? He had chosen to serve once. To serve with honor and to give himself wholly to a cause he believed in. Only with the advent of UNCLE, has he chosen to do so again.

Is he a hero? It’s not for Solo to say. But for these precious, few moments before the sun goes down, he gets to be that soldier again. And that is enough for him.

A member of the color guard steps forward and looks each of them in the eye. “To all who stand here today and have served our great nation, we _thank you_ for your faithful service to America.”

Sergeant Napoleon Solo bows his head as the first tear threatens to fall. The musicians perform their final number and the flags are borne away.

 

* * *

 

They cross a footbridge to reach the Carnation Plaza Gardens. Gaby fancies it looks something like a horseless carousel: white wrought-iron railings and clear, glass bulbs, candy striped bands of red and white on the floor and up above.

Solo is regaling them all with tales of swing dancing and big band music, the Date Nites he used to enjoy while working undercover one golden, endless summer. _So_ that’s _how he knows so much about this place,_ she thinks.

Gaby laments the loss of the Date Nites right along with the CIA agent. Solo would gladly have taken her, would have tagged along (invited or not) if Illya were her plus one for the evening. And, somehow, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“But,” the American sighs, “what I think I will miss most was an opening day attraction. A rather _titillating_ little shop hosted by none other than the Hollywood-Maxwell Brassiere Co. of Los Angeles.”

Illya begins coughing violently. “Br-brassiere?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Peril. This being a family establishment and all, but I assure you, the intimate apparel shop was _more_ than just a purveyor of lingerie. It was educational as well.”

Gaby snorts. “And what exactly could you learn there?”

“A whole history of women’s unmentionables,” he smirks. “Patrons could make use of certain 3D viewing boxes… and then could visit the ‘corseteria’ to purchase some of the latest models.”

Illya has flushed an endearing shade of Soviet scarlet, no doubt mortified by such a thought. Waverly, too, looks  mildly scandalized—a scenario Solo can’t help but capitalize on.

“And then, of course, there was the shop’s host. The _Wizard_ of Bras.”

Illya nearly runs into a lamppost.

 

* * *

 

Carefree Corner.

Illya frowns at the name. It sounds too idealistic, too much like a trap. He can’t fathom why they’re even here, staring down the barrels of a guest book. Whose idea had it been? Why had their superior gone along with it?

Why had _he?_

A registry. A permanent record. A dangerous, foolish risk.

And yet, and _yet_ , there are three new entries. Three, honest entries—or as honest as they could afford to be. His hands tremble slightly as he takes the pen from Gaby and begins to write…

_I.K., London, United Kingdom._

Cowboy claps him on the shoulder as they turn to leave. “You just got one-up on Khrushchev.”

Illya hums. He supposes he did.

 

* * *

 

The fireworks are streaking bright and bold in the sky and Illya’s heart could burst right along with them. Less than a day ago, he was in Moscow. And now, he is in Disneyland… and planning to return again tomorrow.

He might even bring his camera. Take some photos. Have them developed and mailed home to London. _Home._ What a strange thought.

Illya won’t take pictures of his partners, nothing as incriminating as that, but snapshots, maybe, like puzzle pieces. Coded clues of this rarefied chance at a normal life.

He remembers then the kiosk in Tomorrowland, the longing in Gaby’s eyes. _One photo,_ he decides. _One photo to prove that this wasn’t just a dream._ They can always burn the evidence later, lock it away in an archive somewhere, but while they are under the protective spell of this Happiest Place on Earth, they can hold onto the memory at least a while longer.

_It wouldn’t be practical, would it?_

He had agreed with her then and agrees with her now. _No,_ he thinks, smiling as he repeats their conversation to himself. _It wouldn’t._

Illya reaches for Gaby’s hand anyway and together, they watch the colors dance blissfully free across the starry sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upjohn Pharmacy on Main Street was stylized as a late 19th century apothecary with a more modern component to promote their own products and services. The shop was even staffed by two pharmacists, though they couldn't actually dispense any medication. They would give out free postcards and bottles of vitamins and did have live leeches on display.
> 
> Pink carnations, purple hyacinths, white tulips, and orchids are all appropriate "I'm sorry" flowers, if anyone is wondering. :) The Main Street Flower Mart sold plastic flowers and fruit and had the slogan that Solo references: "the world's finest natural flowers not made by nature".
> 
> While not specified, the team visits the Carnation Ice Cream Parlor which had a variety of treats themed to characters and the different lands in the park. There used to be an antique delivery truck out front that would deliver supplies to the parlor when on-duty or serve as a photo prop when off.
> 
> "Brain freeze" was not coined until the 90's, but the term 'ice-cream headache' has been around since '37. First known use was in "We Didn't Ask Utopa: A Quaker Family in Soviet Russia", an autobiographical account. :P The sensation is also known as cold-stimulus headache, proper scientfic name "sphinopalatine ganglioneuralgia", trigeminal headache, etc. Apparently, inducing brain freeze can help cure or mitigate migraine symptoms as well?
> 
> The Flag Retreat Ceremony is a daily ritual in the Disneyland parks and a moment that I've been looking forward to writing since the moment I learned about it in my research. Per Department of Defense guidelines, there is a proper order when playing the hymns for each service branch: Army first, then Marines, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard. As mentioned in the story, "The Army Goes Rolling Along" has been a familiar, integral tune since at least 1917 and in 1952 was officially adopted as the Army's song after a new title and new lyrics were provided. Solo's rank is from his end credit dossier!
> 
> A special, special thank you to all current or former military who may be reading this and also to those who support their significant others and family members while they serve. We love you and are grateful for all that you do! <3
> 
> The Date Nites were held the summer of 1957 and were aimed towards the largely teenaged and twenty-somethings crowd. It was a roaring success and just a very sweet and wholesome-sounding event. :)
> 
> Yes, Disneyland used to sell lingerie... and guns... and tobacco. And surprisingly, the Intimate Apparel Shop on Main Street was not the only one the park would have (there was later one called "Jessica's" after the Roger Rabbit character, but it was also a short-lived attraction). The Wizard of Bras was an automaton of sorts that used tape-recorder technology to educate and titillate the guests. Not too much information out there on him, but it was quite the attention-getter in its day.
> 
> The fireworks show during this time was called "Fantasy in the Sky" and featured a handful of songs from Disney movies (like Snow White, Cinderella, Peter Pan). Don't know when exactly it changed, but in the early days, the cast members would hand-light the fireworks.
> 
> ...and that's a wrap! Thank you all again for reading and for all the lovely comments! <3


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